
Ghs.i^EEs^±j 



Copyright }^°__II_il_ 



COEOilGUr DEPOSIT. 




'^^^'3^ 



FABIOLA; 

OR, 

THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS, 



_® 



/ 



Br HIS EMIJ^EJTCE CARDIJfAL WiSEMAJY. 

H^C, SUB ALTARI SITA SEMPITEBNO, 
LAPSIBOS NOSTRIS VENIAM PRECATUR 
TURBA, QUAM SERVAT PROCERUM CREATRIX PURPHREORUM. 

PrudetOius. 



HEBE, BENEATH THE ETERNAL ALTAR, 

LIES THAT THRONG OF ILLPSTBIOUS M^ 

WHO ASK PARDON FOR OUR SINS, 

AND OVER WHOM THE CITY THAT GAVE THEM BIRTH WATCHES. 

a l^istotical picture 
SUFFERINGS OF THE EARLY CHURCH 

IN PAGAN ROME, 

ILLUSTRATING THE 
AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE LIVES OF 

The fair young Virgin, St. Agnes ; the heroic Soldier, St. Sebastian ; 
the devoted Youth, St. Panoratius; etc., etc. 



IL.L.USTKA.TDBD EJDITION. 

IV/T// A PREFACE BY 

Rev. Richard Brennan, LL.D., 

Pastor of St. Rose of Lima's Churcli, New York. 

NOV 27 1885j^/ 

NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, AND ST. LOUIS : 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE. 
1886. 



□ 






Copyright, 1885, by Benziger Brothers. 



Blectrot3rped t>y SMITH & McDOTJGAL, New Torfc. 



P R E FAC E 



TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION, 




HE late Cardinal Wiseman's admirable story, 
"Fabiola," has been read for the last thirty 
years in many lands and many tongues. At 
this late day, to say that it has been every- 
where productive of inestimable good to Chris- 
tian souls, would be the utterance of the merest 
truism. But while its salutary influence has 
been felt far and wide, it seems to have been 
fraught with special blessings most peculiarly 
adapted to the religious circumstances of our 
own land ; where, thirty years ago, when the work made its first 
51 appearance among us, the condition of the Chui-ch was not alto- 
^)j gether dissimilar from that of the early Church in pagan Rome 
at the date of the story. 
Although the sun of divine faith had long before begun to warm 
with its vivifying and sanctifying rays the virgin soil of this western land 
of ours, yet it had hardly risen above the horizon when dark and threat- 
ening clouds of persecution seemed aSbout to obscure its light, promising, 
instead of a bright and cheerful day for the Church, a night of disap- 
pointment and suffering. The good already accomplished by the early 
missionaries seemed imperilled by the coming storm, and the work at 
that time in progress was meeting with fierce and even cruel opposition. 
Then it was that men asked themselves, was it necessary that the found- 
ing of Christ's Church in America should undergo a process similar to 



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that which it had undergone in pagan Rome. Although the Catholics 
of America thirty years ago had little cause to fear the torch or the axe 
of the executioner, though they could hardly hope for the blood-stained 
crown of martyrdom in the public arena, though they heard not the cry, 
"to the wild beasts with the Christians," yet they dwelt amid much 
religious privation, underwent keen mental persecution, and were made 
the victims of rampant bigotry, furious political partisanship, and 
humiliating social ostracism. Like the heroic characters so graphically 
portrayed by the Cardinal' s graceful pen in the history of Fabiola, the 
Catholics in America professed a faith imperfectly known in the land, 
or known only to be despised and hated by the great majority of the 
American j)eople, just as that self-same faith had been misrepresented, 
detested and persecuted in the early ages, by the misguided citizens of 
pagan Rome. 

In such times. Catholics sorely needed the help of bright examples 
of courage, zeal and perseverance, to beckon them on in the steady 
pursuit of their arduous and sometimes perilous task of preserving, 
practising, and declaring their faith. Such examples they found in 
Cardinal Wiseman' s beautiful work, models of fidelity to faith, heroes 
and heroines who in their patient lives and cruel deaths gave testimony 
unto Christ Jesus, producing such fruits of virtue, and showing forth so 
beautifully and so powerfully the effects of the true faith, that that faith 
itself finally triumphed over all opposition ; and verifying the words of 
the Apostle, became a victory that conquered the world : " Haec est 
victoria, quae vincit mundum, fides nostra." " This is the victory which 
overcometh the world, our faith." 

By the study of these models, as presented in the story of Fabiola, 
the struggling Catholics of this country learned how to possess their 
souls in patience. While admiring the heroic fortitude of those martyrs, 
though not presuming always to imitate their extraordinary ways, our 
predecessors in the faith felt themselves encouraged to follow in their 
footsteps, bearing patiently all religious privations and adhering to 
their faith amid hatred and contempt, and giving bold testimony of it 
before unbelieving men. 



mr 



Inspired by the example of these primitive Christians, the priests 
and j)eople alike of the past generation were strengthened in the convic- 
tion that in their poor despised Church, at that time remarkable for its 
poverty and obscurity, there dwelt the eternal truth brought down to 
earth from heaven by the Son of the living God, the truth which He had 
confirmed by miracles and sealed with His precious life' s blood ; the 
truth in whose defence millions of the holiest and greatest men sacrificed 
their very lives ; the truth in whose possession the noblest and most 
enlightened aniong the children of Adam had found peace in life and 
consolation in death. For tkis truth, they were willing to die. 

How opportune, at that time, was the appearance in our midst of a 
work from a master-hand, presenting to view in a most vivid and realistic 
light the trials and triumphs of those heroes in the Church who raised 
the cross of Christ, bedewed with martyr-blood, upon the dome of the 
Roman Capitol ! Like the cheering flambeau borne in the hands of the 
acolyte of the Catacombs, the story of Fabiola served to brighten and 
cheer the arduous path of many a despised if not persecuted Catholic, 
amid the religious wilderness then to a great extent prevailing over our 
broad land. 

But as the primitive Church emerged fi'om her hiding-places, so, 
thank God, has that same Chiu'ch in our own country bounded forth 
from obscurity and contempt into the broad light of day, where she 
stands confessed in all her truth and beauty, at once the envy and 
admii-ation of her recent opponents. 

"While to-day, ^otestantism is an enemy that no Catholic need fear, 
a new and more formidable foe confronts us in the shape of materialism. 
The contest between truth and error is as fierce as ever, though the 
tactics are changed. We should arm ourselves for the battle against 
materialism as our fathers did against protestantism. We can win no 
laurels in a war against protestantism, for it has been subdued by those 
ahead of us in the ranks. Such laurels have been gathered by earlier 
and worthier hands than ours. Nor are there places for us by the side 
of the martyrs Pancratius, Sebastian, and other heroes of primitive 
Christianity. Yet a great trust has descended to our hands, and sacred 



m 



obligations have devolved on the present generation of Catholics. 
There remains to us a great duty of defence and preservation, and there 
lies open before us a grand and glorious pursuit to which the religious 
needs of the times loudly call us. We live in an age of sordid material- 
ism, when it is of vital importance to turn the thoughts of all Christians 
to the really heroic ages of the Church, and to the lives of men and 
women who have done honor to principle, glorified God and benefited 
their fellow-beings by their holy and self-sacrificing lives. 

As the story of Fabiola taught our immediate predecessors in the 
faith, to admire and imitate the virtues of the primitive Christians, so 
should we learn to cherish the names and memories of the devoted 
ones who, amid hardships, privations and contempt, laid the solid 
foundations in this land, of that stately and magnificent structure 
beneath whose hallowed roof it is our happy lot to dwell unmolested in 
peace and prosperity. 

Therefore we gladly welcome this first illustrated edition of Cardinal 
Wiseman's "Fabiola." Viewed in its improved mechanical aspect, it 
is emblematic of the wondrous development of our Catholic literature, 
and when contrasted with the simpler and humbler editions which we 
received thirty years ago, seems like the stately cathedral that has 
taken the place of the lowly wooden chapel of that period. Its many 
beautiful engravings will bring more vividly before the reader the scenes 
of cruel persecution already graphically described, and with its bright 
examples of constancy and self-sacrifice serve to stimulate and fortify 
Catholics of the present and future generations in their contest with 
worldliness, materialism, and, we may say, unmitigated paganism. 

R. B. 

St. Rose's Rectory, All Saints' Day, 1885. 




PREFACE. 

^HEN tlie plan of the Popular CatTioUc 
Library was formed, the author of the 
following little work was consulted upon 
it. He not only approved of the design, 
Tbut ventui-ed to suggest, among others, a 
series of tales illustrative of the condition 
of the Church in different periods of her 
past existence. One, for instance, might 
be called " The Church of the Catacombs ; " a second, "The 
Church of the Basilicas;" each comprising three hundred 
years : a third would be on " The Church of the Cloister ;" 
and then, perhaps, a fourth might be added, called "The 
Church of the Schools." 

In proposing this sketch, he added,— perhaps the reader will find 
indiscreetly,— that he felt half inclined to undertake the first, by way 
of illustrating the proposed plan. He was taken at his word, and urged 
strongly to begin the work. After some reflection, he consented ; but 
with an understanding, that it was not to be an occupation, but only 
the recreation of leisure hours. With this condition, the work was com- 
menced early in this year ; and it has been carried on entirely on that 
principle. 

It has, therefore, been written at all sorts of times and in all sorts 
of places ; early and late, when no duty urged, in scraps and fragments 
of time, when the body was too fatigued or the mind too worn for 
heavier occupation ; in the road-side inn, in the halt of travel, in strange 
houses, in every variety of situation and circumstances— sometimes try- 
ing ones. It has thus been composed bit by bit, in portions varying 
from ten lines to half-a-dozen pages at most, and generally with few 
books or resources at hand. But once begun, it has proved what it was 
taken for,— a recreation, and often a solace and a sedative ; from the 
memories it has revived, the associations it has renewed, the scattered 
and broken remnants of old studies and early readings which it has 



-trd 



combined, and by the familiarity which it has cherished with better 
times and better things than surround us in our age. 

Why need the reader be told all this 'i For two reasons : 

First, this method of composition may possibly be reflected on the 
work ; and he may find it patchy and ill-assorted, or not well connected 
in its parts. If so, this account will explain the cause. 

Secondly, he will thus be led not to expect a treatise or a learned 
work even upon ecclesiastical antiquities. Nothing would have been 
easier than to cast an air of erudition over this little book, and till half 
of each page with notes and references. But this was never the writer' s 
idea. His desire was rather to make his reader familiar with the usages, 
habits, condition, ideas, feeling, and spirit of the early ages of Christian- 
ity. This required a certain acquaintance with places and objects con- 
nected with the period, and some familiarity, more habitual than learned, 
with the records of the time. For instance, such writings as the Acts 
of primitive Martyrs should have been frequently read, so as to leave 
impressions on the author"' s mind, rather than have been examined 
scientifically and critically for mere antiquarian purposes. And so, such 
places or monuments as have to be explained should seem to stand be- 
fore the eye of the describer, from frequently and almost casually seeing 
them, rather than have to be drawn from books. 

Another source of instruction has been freely iised. Any one ac- 
quainted with the Roman Breviary must have observed, that in the ofiices 
of certain saints a peculiar style prevails, which presents the holy per- 
sons commemorated in a distinct and characteristic form. This is not 
the result so much of any continuous narrative, as of expressions put 
into their mouths, or brief descriptions of events in their lives, repeated 
often again and again, in antiphons, responsoria to lessons, and even 
versicles ; till they put before us an individuality, a portrait clear and 
definite of singular excellence. To this class belong the ofiices of SS. 
Agnes, Agatha, Csecilia, and Lucia ; and those of St. Clement and St. 
Martin. Each of these saints stands out before our minds with distinct 
features ; almost as if we had seen and known them. 

If, for instance, we take the first that we have named, we clearly 
draw out the following circumstances. She is evidently pursued by 
some heathen admirer, whose suit for her hand she repeatedly rejects. 
Sometimes she tells him that he is forestalled by another, to whom she 
is betrothed ; sometimes she describes this object of her choice under 
various images, representing him even as the object of homage to sun and 
moon. On another occasion she describes the rich gifts, or the beautiful 
garlands with which he has adorned her, and the chaste caresses by 
which he has endeared himself to her. Then at last, as if more impor- 



tunately pressed, slie rejects the love of perishable man, "the food of 
death," and triumphantly proclaims herself the spouse of Christ. 
Threats are used ; but she declares herself under the protection of an 
angel who will shield her. 

This history is as plainly written by the fragments of her office, as a 
word is by scattered letters brought, and joined together. But through- 
out, one discerns another peculiarity, and a truly beautiful one in her 
character. It is clearly represented to us, that the saint had ever before 
her the unseen Object of her love, saw Him, heard Him, felt Him, and 
entertained, and had returned, a real affection, such as hearts on earth 
have for one another. She seems to walk in perpetual vision, almost in 
ecstatic fruition, of her Spouse's presence. He has actually put a ring 
upon her finger, has transferred the blood from His own cheek to hers, 
has crowned her with budding roses. Her eye is really upon him, with 
unerring gaze, and returned looks of gracious love. 

What writer that introduced the person would venture to alter the 
character? Who would presume to attempt one at variance with it? 
Or who would hope to draw a portrait more life-like and more exquisite 
than the Church has done ? For, putting aside all inquiry as to the 
genuineness of the acts by which these passages are suggested ; and still 
more waving the question whether the hard critical spirit of a former age 
too lightly rejected such ecclesiastical documents, as Gueranger thinks ; 
it is clear that the Church, in her office, intends to place before us a cer- 
tain type of high virtue embodied in the character of that saint. The 
writer of the following pages considered himself therefore bound to 
adhere to this view. 

Whether these objects have been attained, it is for the reader to 
judge. At any rate, even looking at the amount of information to be 
expected from a work in this form, and one intended for general reading, 
a comparison between the subjects introduced, either formally or casu- 
ally, and those given in any elementary work, such as Fleury's Man- 
ners of tJie Christians, which embraces several centuries more, will 
show that as much positive knowledge on the practices and belief of that 
early peiiod is here imparted, as it is usual to communicate in a more 
didactic form. 

At the same time, the reader must remember that this book is not 
historical. It takes in but a period of a few months, extended in some 
concluding chapters. It consists rather of a series of pictures than of a 
narrative of events. Occurrences, therefore, of different epochs and dif- 
ferent countries have been condensed into a small space. Chronology 
has been sacrificed to this purpose. The date of Dioclesian' s edict has 
been anticipated by two months : the martyrdom of St. Agnes by a 



year; the period of St. Sebastian, though uncertain, has been brought 
down later. All that relates to Christian topography has been kept as 
accurate as possible. A martyrdom has been transferred from Imola to 
Fondi. 

It was necessary to introduce some view of the morals and opinions 
of the Pagan world, as a contrast to those of Christians. But their worst 
aspect has been carefully suppressed, as nothing could be admitted here 
which the most sensitive Catholic eye would shrink from contemplating. 
It is indeed earnestly desired that this little work, written solely for 
recreation, be read also as a relaxation from graver pursuits ; but that, 
at the same time, the reader may rise from its perusal with a feeling that 
his time has not been lost, nor his mind occupied vdth frivolous ideas. 
Rather let it be hoped, that some admiration and love may be inspired 
by it of those primitive times, which an over-excited interest in later and 
more brilliant epochs of the Church is too apt to diminish or obscure. 




The Bark of Peter, as found in the Catacombs. 



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i:^ 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface to the Illustrated Edition iii 

Author's Preface '^li 

List of Illustrations xiii 



CHAP. 



PART I. 

I. The Christian House 19 

II. The Martyr's Box . . 26 

III. The Dedication 32 

IV. The Heathen Household 42 

V. The Visit 58 

VI. The Banquet • • • • 64 

VII. Poor and Rich '72 

VIII. The First Day's Conclusion 82 

IX. Meetings 88 

X. Other Meetings 106 

XI. A Talk with the Reader 119 

XII. The Wolf and the Fox 129 

XIII. Charity 1^5 

XIV. Extremes Meet 139 

XV. Charity Returns . . . 149 

XVI. The Month of October 154 

XVII. The Christian Community • 170 

XVIII. Temptation 183 

XIX. The Pall . . 190 



PART 11. 

I. Diogenes 205 

II. The Cemeteries 219 

III. What Diogenes could not tell about the Catacombs . 239 



CHAP. PAGE 

IV. What Diogenes did tell about the Catacombs . . 248 

V. Above Ground 261 

VI. Deliberations 265 

VII. Dark Death . . . 275 

VIII. Darker Still 280 

IX. The False Brother . 285 

X. The Ordination in December 291 

XI. The Virgins 300 

XII. The Nomentan Villa 308 

XIII. The Edict 315 

XIV. The Discovery . .325 

XV. Explanations 330 

XVI. The Wole in the Fold .335 

XVII. The First Flower 356 

XVIII. Retribution 368 

XIX. Twofold Revenge . . . . . . . 381 

XX. The Public Works 390 

XXI. The Prison 396 

XXII. The Viaticum 403 

XXIII. The Fight 419 

XXIV. The Christian Soldier 431 

XXV. The Rescue , ... 437 

XXVI. The Revival 448 

XXVII. The Second Crown 457 

XXVIII. The Critical Day : its First Part .... 464 
XXIX. The same Day : its Second Part .... 473 

XXX. The same Day : its Third Part 491 

XXXI. DioNYSius, Priest and Physician .... 507 
XXXII. The Sacrifice Accepted . 513 

XXXIII. Miriam's History 523 

XXXIV. Bright Death 533 



PART III 

I. The Stranger from the East ...... 549 

II. The Stranger in Rome 558 

III. And Last 664 



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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
"^ Chkomolithogeaph of St. Agnes, Viegist akd Martyr. Frontispiece. 

FROM ORIGINAL DRAWJNGS BY VAN DARGENT. 



PAGE 



Ordination, in the Early Ages of the Church .... 33 

'/ The Sacrament of Penance, in the Early Ages of the Church . 125 

The Blessed Eucharist, in the Early Ages of the Church . . 337 

Confirmation, in the Early Ages of the Church ... 343 

Baptism, in the Early Ages of the Church 539 

Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early 

Ages of the Church 545 

, A Marriage, in the Early Ages of the Church .... 553 

FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY JOSEPH BLANC. 

" With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden 
chain" 39 

"Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an 
almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid " . . 51 

"He who watched with beaming eye the alms-coffers of Jerusa- 
lem, AND noted the WIDOW'S MITE, ALONE SAW DROPPED INTO THE 

chest, by the bandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a 

valuable emerald ring" 55 

" ' Hare ! ' said Pancratius, ' these are the trumpet-notes that 

SUMMON us'" 95 

" ' Here it goes ! ' and he thrust it into the blazing fire " . . 321 

" * Is it possible ? ' SHE EXCLAIMED WITH HORROR, ' Is THAT TaECISIUS 

WHOM I MET A FEW MOMENTS AGO, SO FAIR AND LOVELY ? ' " . . 409 



PAOK 

"Each one, approaching devoutly, and with tears of gratitude, 
received from his consecrated hand his shake — that is, the 
whole of the mystical food" 415 

"PaNCRATIUS was STILL STANDING IN THE SAME PLACE, FACING THE 

Emperor, apparently so absorbed in higher thoughts as not 
TO heed the movements of his enemy" 427 

"The Judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesita- 
tion, and bid him at once do his duty " 481 

"Fabiola went down herself, with a few servants, and what was 
her distress at finding poor Emerentiana lying weltering in 
her blood, and perfectly dead " 535 

The Euins of the Coliseum, as seen from the Palatine of St. 

Bonaventure 89 

St. Lawrence Display'ing his Treasures 151 

Interior of the Temple of Jupiter 163 

The Euins of the Eoman Forum, as they are to-day . . . 199 

The Martyr's Widow 321 

The Tomb of St. C-ecilia 227 

A Columbarium, or Underground Sepulchre, in which the Eomans 

Deposited the Urns Containing the Ashes of the Dead . . 233 

The Claudian Aqueduct 267 

Instruments of Torture used against the Christians, from Eoller's 

"Catacombes de Eome" 287 

An Attack in the Catacombs 349 

The Martyr C^ecilia 363 

The Martyr's Burial 377 

The North- West Side of the Forum 453 

The Christian Martyr . 485 



LLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT. 



exclusive of ornamental initials. 

The Bark of Peter, as found in the Catacombs 

Interior of a Eoman Dwelling at Pompeii .... 

Plan of Pansa's House at Pompeii 



Door of Pansa's House, with the Greeting SALVE or WELCOME 



12 
19 

20 
22 



i4-P 



PAGE 

Atkium of a Pompeian House 23 

Ateium of a House ix Pompeii 23 

Clepsydea, or Water-clock, from a Bas-Eelief ix the Maitei Palace, 

Rome 25 

A PoriTRAiT of Christ, from the Catacomb of St. Poxtiantjs . 25 
A Piece of a "Gold Glass" fouxd ix the Catacombs . . .41 

Pompeiax Couch 44 

Table, after a Paixtixg ix Hercuxaxeum 44 

Couch from Herculaxeum 45 

Elaborate Seat from Herculaxeum 46 

A Slave, from a Paixtixg in Herculaxeum 48 

A Lamp fouxd ix^ the Catacombs 57 

Saixt Agxes, from ax Old Vase 60 

Saixt Agxes, from ax Old Vase Preserved ix the Vaticax Mu- 
seum 61 

Baxquet Table, from a Pompeiax Paixtixg 67 

David with his Slixg, from the Catacomb of St. Peteoxilla . . 71 

A Dove, as a Symbol of the Soul, fouxd ix the Catacombs . . 81 

Volumixa, from a Paixtixg of Pompeii 84 

SCRIXILII, FROM A PICTURE IX THE CeMETERT OF St. CaLLISTUS . . 84 

Our Saviour, from a Repeesextatiox fouxd ix the Catacombs . 87 

Meta Sudaxs, after a Broxze OF Vespasiax 91 

The Arch of TituS 92 

The Appiax Way, as it was 102 

Emblematic Eepeesextatiox of Paradise, fouxd ix the Catacombs 105 
Saixt Sebastiax, from the "Roma Sotteraxea" of De Rossi . . 107 
Military Tribuxes, after a Bas-Relief ox Trajax's Coloix . . 108 

The Eomax Forum m 

A Lamb with a Milk Cax, fouxd ix the Catacomb of SS. Peter 

axd Maecellix 118 

St. Ignatius, Bishop of Axtioch 12i 

MOXOGEAMS OF ChEIST, FOUXD IX THE CATACOMBS, 128, 169, 264, 274, 279, 

324, 334, 395, 436, 472. 

RoMAX Gaedexs, from ax Old Paixtixg 130 

A Lamp, with the Moxogbam of Christ 134 

A Deacox, feom De Rossi's « Roma Sotteraxea " 137 

A Fish Carryixg Bread axd Wixe, from the Cemetery of St. Lucixa 138 
A Wall Paixtixg, from the Cemetery of St. Priscilla . . .148 



n4tsi 



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PAGE 

Chkist in the Midst of His Apostles, from a Painting in the Cata- 
combs 1^^ 

Interior of a Eoman Theatre 185 

Halls in the Baths of Caracalla 186 

The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Resurrection . . • .189 

A Dote, as an Emblem of the Soul 203 

Diogenes, the Excatator, from a Painting in the Cemetery of 

Domitilla 205 

Jonas, after a Painting in the Cemetery of Oallistus . . . 206 
Lazarus Raised from the Dead 307 

Two POSSORES, OR EXCAVATORS, FROM A PICTURE AT THE CeMETERT OF 

Callistus 208 

A Gallery in the Cemetery of St. Agnes, on the Nomentan Way 211 
Inscription of the Cemetery of St. Agnes . . . • . 212 

An Arcosolium 213 

Our Satiour Blessing the Bread, from a Picture in the Catacombs 218 

A Staircase in the Catacombs 220 

A Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament 224 

Underground Gallery in the Catacombs, from Th. Roller's " Cata- 

coMBBS de Rome" .......••• 225 

A Loculus, Closed 231 

" " Open 235 

A Lamb with a Milk Pail, Emblematic of the Blessed Eucharist, 

found in the catacombs 238 

St. Cornelius and St. Cyprian, from De Rossi's " Roma Sotteranea " 244 

The Tomb of Cornelius 247 

A Lamp with a Representation of the Good Shepherd, found at 

Ostium, prior to the Third Century, from Roller's "Cata- 

combes" 249 

CuBicuLUM, OR Crypt, as found in the Catacombs .... 250 
The Last Supper, from a Painting in the Cemetery of St. Callistus 251 
A Ceiling in the Catacombs, from De Rossi's "Roma Sotteranea" 252 
Our Lord Under the Symbol of Orpheus, from a Picture in the 

Cemetery of Domitilius . . . , 253 

The Good Shepherd, a Woman Pra:ying, from the Arcosolium of the 

Cemetery of SS. Nereus and Achilleus 254 

A Ceiling in the Catacombs, in the Cemetery of Domitilla, Third 

Century 255 






'nn 



PAGE 



The Fishes and Anchor, the Fishes and Doves . . . .356 
The Blessed Virgin and the Magi, from a Picture in the Ceme- 
tery OP Callistus 258 

Moses Striking the Rock, from the Cemetery of " Inter Duos Lauros " 260 
Maximilian Herculeus, from a Bronze Medal in the Collection 

OF France 366 

The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Eesurrection, found in the 

Catacombs 284 

Christ and His Apostles, from a Picture in the Catacombs . . 390 

St. Pudentiana, St. Priscilla, and St. Praxedes 293 

Our Saviour Represented as the Good Shepherd, with a Milk Can 

AT His Side, as found in the Catacombs 399 

Chair of St. Peter 304 

The Anchor and Fishes, an Emblem of Christianity, found in the 

Catacombs .... 307 

" Haughty Roman dame ! Thou shalt bitterly rue this day and 

HOUR" 313 

A Lamb Between Wolves, Emblematic of the Church, from a Pic- 
ture IN the Cemetery of St. Pr^etextatus 314 

An Emblem of Paradise, found in the Catacombs .... 329 
Ruins of the Basilica of St. Alexander, on the Nomentan Wat, 

FROM Roller's " Catacombes de Rome " 342 

Plan of Subterranean Church, in the Cemetery of St. Agnes . 345 
A Cathedra, or Episcopal Chair, in Catacomb of St. Agnes . . 346 
An Altar with its Episcopal Chair, in the Cemetery of St. Agnes 348 

An Altar in the Cemetery of St. Sixtus 353 

The Cure of the Man Born Blind, from a Picture in the Cata- 
combs 355 

The Woman of Samaria, from a Picture in the Cemetery of St. 

domitilla 36^ 

Jesus Cures the Blind Man, from a Picture in the Cemetery of 

St. Domitilla 3gQ 

The Anchor and Fish, Emblematic of Christianity, found in the 

Catacombs 339 

The Mamertine Prison 393 

The Blessed Virgin, from a Portrait found in the Cemetery of 



St. Agnes 



403 



The Coliseum 420 



XVll 






PAGE 



A Lamp Bearing a Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs 430 
Elias Carried to Heaven, from a Picture found in the Catacombs 447 
Moses Receiving the Law, from a Picture in the Cemetery of 

"Inter Duos Lauros" 456 

Christ Blessing a Child, from a Picture in the Cemetery of the 

Latin Way - ... - 463 

Chains for the Martyrs, after a Picture found in 1841, in a Crypt 

at Milan - 480 

A Blood Urn, used as a Mark for a Martyr's Grave . . . 489 
The Resurrection of Lazarus, from the Cemetery of St. Domitilla 490 

Cemetery of Callistus 508 

Ordination, from a Picture in the Catacombs .... 531 

Portrait of Our Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. Callistus . 548 

CONSTANTINE, THE FiRST CHRISTIAN EmPEROR, AFTER A MeDAL OF THE 

Time 549 

Dioclesian, after a Medal in the Cabinet of Prance . . . 650 
LuciNius, Masentius, Galerius-Maximinus, from Gold and Silver 

Medals in the French Collection 550 

The Labarum, or Christian Standard, from a Coin of Constantine 552 
NoE AND the Ark, as a Symbol of the Church, from a Picture in 

THE Catacombs 557 

The Sacrifice of Abraham, from a Picture in the Catacombs 563 



s U u 



^ 





walk, 



Interior of a Roman dwelling at Pompeii. 



|Jart JFir0t-|Jcace« 



CHAPTER I. 
THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE. 

T is on an afternoon in September of the year 302, 
that we invite our reader to accompany us through 
the streets of Rome. The sun has declined, and 
is about two hours from his setting ; the day is 
cloudless, and its heat has cooled, so that multi- 
tudes are ii:ssuing from their houses, and making 
their way towards Caasar's gardens on one side, 
or Sallust's on the, other, to enjoy their evening 
and learn the news of the day. 



But the part of the city to which we wish to conduct our 
friendly reader is that know^n by the name of the Campus Mar- 
tins. It comiDrised the flat alluvial plain betw^een the seven 
hills of older Rome and the Tiber. Before the close of the repub- 
lican period, this field, once left bare for the athletic and war- 



^y^ Street of tlip Thp-ms. 








§ 



Plan of Pant-a's house, at Pompeii 



like exercises of the j^eoi^le, had begun to be encroached upon 
by public buildings. Pompey had erected in it his theatre ; 
soon after, Agrippa raised the Pantheon and its adjoining baths. 
But gradually it became occupied by private dwellings ; while 



TO 



w 



the hills, in the early empire the aiistocratic portion of the 
city, were seized upon for greater edifices. Thus the Palatine, 
after Nero's fire, became almost too small for the Imperial 
residence and its adjoining Circus Maximus. The Esquiline 
was usuiped by Titus's baths, built on the ruins of the Golden 
House, the Aventine by Caracalla's; and at the period of 
which we write, the Emperor Dioclesian was covering the 
space sufficient for many lordly dwellings, by the erection of 
his Thermae * on the Quirinal, not far from Sallust's garden, 
just alluded to. 

The particular spot in the Campus Martins to which we 
will direct our steps, is one whose situation is so definite, that 
we can accurately describe it to any one acquainted with the 
topography of ancient or modern Kome. In republican times 
there was a large square space in the Campus Martius, sur- 
rounded by boarding, and divided into pens, in which the Comi- 
tia, or meetings of the tribes of the people, were held, for gi\-ing 
their votes. This was called the Septa, or Ovik, from its resem- 
blance to a sheepfold. Augustus carried out a plan, described 
by Cicero in a letter to Atticus,t of transforming this homely 
contrivance into a magnificent and solid structure. The Septa 
Julia, as it was thenceforth called, was a splendid portico of 
1000 by 500 feet, supported by columns, and adorned with 
paintings. Its ruins are clearly traceable; and it occupied 
the space now covered by the Doria and Yerospi palaces (run- 
ning thus along the present Corso), the Roman College, the 
Church of St. Ignatius, and the Oratory of the Caravita. 

The house to which we invite our reader is exactly oppo- 
site, and on the east side of this edifice, including in its area 
the present church of St. Marcellus, whence it extended back 
towards the foot of the Quirinal hill. It is thus found to covei-, 
as noble Roman houses did, a considerable extent of ground. 
From the outside it presents but a blank and dead appear- 

* Hot-baths. f Lib. iv. ep. 16. 



■^-t^ 



w 



Iff 



ance. The walls are plain, without architectural ornament, 
not high, and scarcely broken by windows. In the middle of 
one side of this quadrangle is a door, in antis, that is, merely 
relieved by a tympanum or triangular cornice, resting on two 
half columns. Using our privilege as "artists of fiction," 
of invisible ubiquity, we will enter in with our friend, or 
" shadow," as he would have been anciently called. Passing 
through the porch, on the pavement of which we read with 
pleasure, in mosaic, the greeting Salve, or Welcome, we find 
ourselves in the atrium, or first court of the house, surrounded 
by a portico or colonnade.* 

In the centre of the marble pave- 
ment a softly warbling jet of pure 
water, brought by the Claudian 
aqueduct from the Tnsculan hills, 
springs into the air, now- higher, now 
lower, and falls into an elevated 
basin of red marble, over the sides of 
which it flows in downy waves ; and 
before reaching its lower and wdder 
recipient, scatters a gentle shower on 
the rare and brilliant flowers placed 
in elegant vases around. Under the 
portico we see furniture disposed, 
Door of pa„ea'Bhoase,^wiattie greeting SAI.VE of a Hch and somctimes rarcchar- 

acter; couches inlaid with ivory, 
and even silver ; tables of oriental woods, bearing candelabra, 
lamps, and other household implements of bronze or silver ; 
delicately chased busts, vases, tripods, and objects of mere 
art. On the walls are paintings evidently of a former period, 
still, however, retaining all their brightness of color and fresh- 
ness of execution. These are sepai-ated by niches with stat- 

* The Pompeian Court in the Crystal Palace, London, will have familiarized 
many readers with the forms of an ancient house. 




ues, representing indeed, like the pictures, mythological or 
historical subjects ; but we cannot help observing that noth- 
ing meets the eye which could offend the most delicate mind. 
Here and there an empty niche, or a covered painting, proves 
that this is not the result of accident. 




Atrium of a Pompeian house. 



As outside the columns, the coving roof leaves a large 
square opening in its centre, called the impluvium, there is 
drawn across it a curtain, or veil of dark canvas, which keeps 
out the sun and rain. An artificial twilight therefore alone 



m 




AtriuTR of a house in Pompeii. 



enables us to see all that we have described ; but it gives 
greater effect to what is beyond. Through an arch, opposite 



to the one whereby we have entered, we catch a glimpse of an 
inner and still richer court, paved with variegated marbles, 
and adorned with bright gilding. The veil of the opening 
above, which, however, here is closed with thick glass or talc 
{lapis speculmns), has been partly withdrawn, and admits a 
bright but softened ray from the evening sun on to the place, 
where we see, for the first time, that we are in no enchanted 
hall, but in an inhabited house. 

Beside a table, just outside the columns of Phrygian mar- 
ble, sits a matron not beyond the middle of life, whose feat- 
ures, noble yet mild, show traces of having passed through 
sorrow at some earlier period. But a powerful influence has 
subdued the recollection of it, or blended it with a sweeter 
thought ; and the two always come together, and have long 
dwelt united in her heart. The simplicity of her appearance 
strangely contrasts with the richness of all around her ; her 
hair, streaked with silver, is left uncovered, and unconcealed 
by any artifice ; her robes are of the plainest color and text- 
ure, without embroidery, except the purple ribbon sewed on, 
and called the segmentwn, which denotes the state of widow- 
hood ; and not a jewel or precious ornament, of which the 
Roman ladies were so lavish, is to be seen upon her person. 
The only thing approaching to this is a slight gold cord or 
chain round her neck, from which apparently hangs some ob- 
ject, carefully concealed within the upper hem of her dress. 

At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged 
over a piece of work, which evidently has no personal use. 
Upon a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with 
still richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to 
one or another of several elegant caskets upon the table, from 
which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and intro- 
duces it into the design. It looks as if the precious orna- 
ments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher 
purpose. 



w 



But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be ob- 
served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to 
all appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises her 
eyes from it towards the entrance ; sometimes 
she listens for footsteps, and seems disap- 
pointed. She looks up towards the sun ; then 
perhaps turns her glance towards a clepsydra 
or water-clock, on a bracket near her, but just '^^^'^"CsS/ hJ^the 

/> 1 • /> • • j_ 1 • j_ Mattel palace, Rome. 

as a leeling or more serious anxiety begins to 
make an impression on her countenance, a cheerful rap strikes 
the house-door, and she bends forward with a radiant look to 
meet the welcome visitor. 





A Portrait of Christ, from the Catacomb of St. Pontlanns 



w 




CHAPTER II. 
THE MARTYR'S BOY. 

'T is a youth full of grace, and sprightli- 
ness, and candor, that comes forward 
with light and buoyant steps across the 
atrium, towards the inner-hall; and we 
shall hardly find time to sketch him 
before he reaches it. He is about four- 
teen years old, but tall for that age, with 
elegance of form and manliness of bear- 
ing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy 
exercise ; his features display an open and warm heart, while 
his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, 
beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's 
garment, the short 2^'<xtexta, reaching below the knee, and a 
golden bulla, or hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his 
neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, 
and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he 
is just returning home from school.* 

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his 
mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She 
gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in 
his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an 
hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so 

* This custom suggests to St. Augustine the beautiful idea, that the Jews 
were the pcedagogi of Christianity,— carrying for it the books which they them- 
selves could not understand. 



w 1 

frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every 
cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses 
him as follows : 

"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No 
accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way?" 

"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest* mother; on the con- 
trary, all has been delightful, — so much so, that I can 
scarcely venture to tell you." 

A look of smiling expostulation drew from the open- 
hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued : 

"Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, 
and cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell you all the bad and 
the good of the day about myself." (The mother smiled 
again, wondering what the bad was.) "I was reading the 
other day that the Scythians each evening cast into an urn a 
white or a black stone, according as the day had been happy 
or unhappy; if I had to do so, it would serve to mark, in 
white or black, the days on which I have, or have not, an 
opportunity of relating to you all that I have done. But 
to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt, a fear of conscience, 
whether I ought to tell you all." 

Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a 
first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, 
that the youth sliould seize her hand and put it tenderly to 
his lips, while he thus replied ? 

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done 
nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to 
hear all that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my 
late return home?" 

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing 
that concerns you can be indifferent to me." 

" Well, then," he began, " this last day of my frequenting 
school appears to me to have been singularly blessed, and yet 

* The peculiar epithet of the Catacombs. 



& 



full of strange occurrences. First, I was crowned as the 
successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master 
Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours ; and 
this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The 
subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready 
to die for truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid 
(I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by 
my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what 
truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have, 
to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, 
what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! 
And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts 
seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you 
have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before 
me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But 
when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my 
feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In the warmth of 
my recitation the word ' Christian ' escaped my lips instead 
of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth.' At the first 
mistake I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear 
glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately toAvards me, he 
said, in a whisper, ' Beware, my child ; there are sharp 
ears listening.' " 

"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a 
Christian ? I chose his school for you because it was in the 
highest repute for learning and for morality ; and now indeed 
I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger and 
apprehension we are obliged to live as strangers in our own 
land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, 
had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon 
have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his 
apprehensions well grounded? " 

" I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows, 
not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty 



declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corviniis bent scowlingly 
upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger." 

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and 
wherefore?" 

"He is the oldest and strongest, but, unfortunately, the 
dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his 
fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had an 
ill-will and grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot 
understand." 

" Did he say aught to you, or do?" 

"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we 
went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed 
me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 
'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we 
meet here' (he laid a particular emphasis on the word) ; 'but I 
have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have 
loved to show your superiority in school over me and others 
older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks 
at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, 
and I caught expressions in it Avhich you may live to rue, and 
that very soon ; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of 
the city' (the mother slightly started); 'and something is 
preparing which may nearly concern you. Before you leave 
us I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, 
and it be not an empty word,* let us fairly contend in more 
manly strife than that of the style and tables, t Wrestle with 
me, or try the cestust against me. I burn to humble you 
as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent 
triumphs.' " 

* The |jff7icr«JmH! was the exercise which combined all other personal 
contests, — wrestling, boxing, etc. 

f The implements of writing in schools, the tablets being covered with wax, 
on which the letters were traced by the sharp point, and effaced by the flat top, 
of the style. 

I The hand-bandages worn in pugilistic combats. 



The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, 
and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did 
you answer, my dear son?" 

"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never 
had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him 
or any of my school-fellows ; nor did I ever dream of claiming 
superiority over them. 'And as to what you propose,' I 
added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to 
indulge in j^ersonal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial 
of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. 
How much less could I think of entering on them now, when 
you avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil 
feelings which are usually their bad end ? ' Our school-mates 
had now formed a circle round us ; and I clearly saw that 
they were all against me, for they had hojDed to enjoy some of 
the delights of their cruel games ; I therefore cheerfully added, 
'And now, my comrades, good-bye, and may all happiness 
attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in 
peace.' 'Not so,' rei:)lied Corvinus, now purple in the face 
with fury ; ' but ' "— 

The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quiv- 
ered, his body trembled, and, half choked, he sobbed out, " I 
cannot go on; I dare not tell the rest ! " 

" I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear 
your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand 
upon her son's head, " conceal nothing from me. I shall 
never again have rest if you tell me not all. What further 
said or did Corvinus?" 

The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a 
silent prayer, and then proceeded : 

" ' JSTot so ! ' exclaimed Corvinus, ' not so do you depart, 
cowardly worshipper of an ass's head ! * Ton have concealed 
your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear 

* One of the many calumnies popular among the heatheus. 



this token of my determined purpose to be revenged ! ' So 
saying he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made 
me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke 
forth from the boys around us." 

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then 
went on : 

" Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment ! how my 
heart seemed bursting within me ; and a voice appeared to 
whisper in my ear scornfully the name of ' coward ! ' It 
surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough — 
my rising anger made me so — to seize my unjust assailant by 
the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard 
already the shout of applause that would have hailed my 
victory and turned the tables against him. It was the 
hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood so 
strong within me. God! may they never be again so 
tremendously powerful ! " 

"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped 
forth the trembling matron. 

He replied, " My good angel conquered the demon at my 
side. I thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Caiphas, 
surrounded by scoffing enemies, and struck ignominiously on 
the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Could I wish to be 
otherwise?* I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and 
said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and 
may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that 
moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful 
crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common 
faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus 
for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And 
now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in soft, gentle 
accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you not think I may 
call this a happy day ? " 

* This scene is taken from a real occurrence. 



CHAPTER III 




THE DEDICATION. 

iHILE the foregoing conversation was held, 
the day had fast declined. An aged 
female servant now entered unnoticed, 
and lighted the lamps placed on marble 
and bronze candelabra, and quietly re- 
tired. A bright light beamed upon the 
unconscious group of mother and son, as 
they remained silent, after the holy 
matron Lucina had answered Pancratius's last question only 
by kissing his glowing brow. It was not merely a maternal 
emotion that was agitating her bosom ; it was not even the 
happy feeling of a mother who, having trained her child to 
certain high and difficult principles, sees them put to the 
hardest test, and nobly stand it. Neither was it the joy of 
having for her son one, in her estimation, so heroically 
virtuous at such an age; for surely, with much greater 
justice than the mother of the Gracchi showed her boys to 
the astonished matrons of republican Rome as her only jewels, 
could that Christian mother have boasted to the Church of 
the son she had brought up. 

But to her this was an hour of still deeper, or, shall we 
say, sublimer feeling. It was a period looked forward to 
anxiously for years ; a moment prayed for with all the fervor 
of a mother's supplication. Many a pious parent has devoted 
her infant son from the cradle to the holiest and noblest state 



r«' 1* I If IK [I' mm: 



4pillJi|lll1111ilIWI|](llll|PIII| llllllllilllll I 1 111 II 1 M »*^A"'?' I W« «\\# 





Ordination in the Early Ages of the Church. 



that earth possesses ; has prayed and longed to see him grow 
up to be, first a spotless Levite, and then a holy priest at the 
altar; and has watched eagerly each growing inclination, and 
tried gently to bend the tender thought towards the sanctuary 
of the Lord of Hosts. And if this was an only child, as 
Samuel was to Anna, that dedication of all that is dear to her 
keenest affection, may justly be considered as an act of 
maternal heroism. What then must be said of ancient 
matrons, — Felicitas, Symphorosa, or the unnamed mother 
of the Maccabees, — who gave up or offered their children, not 
one, but many, yea all, to be victims whole-burnt, rather 
than priests, to God ? 

It was some such thought as this which filled the heart 
of Lucina in that hour ; while, with closed eyes, she raised it 
high to heaven, and prayed for strength. She felt as though 
called to make a generous sacrifice of what was dearest to her 
on earth ; and though she had long foreseen it and desired it, 
it was not without a maternal throe that its merit could be 
gained. And what was passing in that boy's mind, as he too 
remained silent and abstracted ? Not any thought of a high 
destiny awaiting him. No vision of a venerable Basilica, 
eagerly visited 1600 years later by the sacred antiquary and 
the devout pilgrim, and giving his name, which it shall bear, 
to the neighboring gate of Rome.* No anticipation of a 
church in his honor to rise in faithful ages on the banks of 
the distant Thames, which, even after desecration, should be 
loved and eagerly sought as their last resting-place, by hearts 
faithful still to his dear Eome.t No forethought of a silver 
canopy or ciborium, weighing 287 lbs., to be placed over the por- 
phyry urn that should contain his ashes, by Pope Honorius I.t 

* Church and gate of Sau Pancrazio. 

t Old St. Pancras's Church, London, the favorite burial-place of Catholics, 
till they had cemeteries of their own. 

X Anastastasius, Biblioth, in vita Honorii. 



m 



No idea that his name would be enrolled in every niartyr- 
ology, his picture, crowned with rays, hung over many altars, 
as the boy -martyr of the early Church. He was only the 
simple-hearted Christian youth, who looked upon it as a 
matter of course that he must always obey God's law and His 
Gospel ; and only felt happy that he had that day performed 
his duty, when it came under circumstances of more than usual 
trial. There was no pride, no self-admiration in the reflec- 
tion ; otherwise there would have been no hei'oism in his act. 

When he raised again his eyes, after his calm reverie of 
peaceful thoughts, in the new light which brightly filled the 
hall, they met his mother's countenance gazing anew upon 
him, radiant with a majesty and tenderness such as he never 
recollected to have seen before. It was a look almost of in- 
spiration ; her face was as that of a vision ; her eyes what he 
would have imagined an angel's to be. Silently, and almost 
unknowingly, he had changed his position, and was kneeling 
before her; and well he might; for was she not to him as a 
guardian sj^irit, who had shielded him ever from evil; or 
might he not well see in her the living saint whose virtues 
had been his model from childhood? Lucina broke the 
silence, in a tone full of grave emotion. 

" The time is at length come, my dear child," she said, 
" which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, 
which I have yearned for in the exuberance of maternal love. 
Eagerly have I watched in thee the opening germ of each 
Christian virtue, and thanked God as it appeared. I have 
noted thy docility, thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, 
and thy love of God and man. I have seen with joy thy 
lively faith, and thy indifference to worldly things, and thy 
tenderness to the poor. But I have been waiting with anx- 
iety for the hour which should decisively show me whether 
thou wouldst be content with the poor legacy of thy mother's 
weakly virtue, or art the true inheritor of thy martyred 



father's nobler gifts. That hour, thank God, has come to- 
day!" 

" What have I done, then, that should thus have changed 
or raised thy opinion of me ? " asked Pancratius. 

" Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the 
last of thy school education, methinks that our merciful Lord 
has been pleased to give thee a lesson worth it all ; and to 
prove that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must 
be treated henceforth as a man; for thou canst think and 
speak, yea, and act as one." 

" How dost thou mean, dear mother? " 
" What thou hast told me of thy declamation this morn- 
ing," she replied, "proves to me how full thy heart must 
have been of noble and generous thoughts ; thou art too sin- 
cere and honest to have written, and fervently expressed, that 
it was a glorious duty to die for the faith, if thou hadst not 
believed it and felt it." 

" And truly I do believe and feel it," interrupted the boy. 
"What greater happiness can a Christian desire on earth? " 

" Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly," continued Lucina. 
" But 1 should not have been satisfied with words. What fol- 
lowed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst bear in- 
trepidly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I know it 
must have been harder for thy young patrician blood to stand, 
the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the scorntul 
words and glances of an unpitying multitude. Nay more; 
thou hast proved thyself strong enough to forgive and to pray 
for thine enemy. This day thou hast trodden the higher 
paths of the mountain, with the cross upon thy shoulders ; 
one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou 
hast proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus. 
Dost thou wish to be like him ? " 

"Mother, mother! dearest, sweetest mother!" broke out 
the panting youth ; " could I be his genuine son, and not wish 






to resemble him ? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of 
knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind ? 
Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts? When 
each year the solemn commemoration has been made of 
him, as of one of the white-robed army that surrounds the 
Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how have my 
heart and my flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I 
prayed to him, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would 
obtain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not 
earthly joy, but what he valued more than all these: nay, 
that the only thing which he has left on earth may be ap- 
plied, as I know he now considers it would most usefully and 
most nobly be." 

" What is that, my son ? " 

"It is his blood," replied the youth, "which yet remains 
flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must 
wish that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured 
out in love of his Kedeemer, and in testimony of his faith." 

" Enough, enough, my child ! " exclaimed the mother, 
thrilling with a holy emotion; "take from thy neck the 
badge of childhood, I have a better token to give thee." 

He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla. 

"Thou hast inherited from thy father," spoke the mother, 
with still deeper solemnity of tone, " a noble name, a high 
station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But there is 
one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his inherit- 
ance, till thou shouldst j)rove thyself worthy of it. I have 
concealed it from thee till now, though I valued it more than 
gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee." 

With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden 
chain which hung round it, and for the first time her son saw 
that it supported a small bag or purse richly embroidered and 
set with gems. She opened it, and drew from it a sponge, dry 
indeed, but deeply stained. 




•^Arull trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden ehai: 



"This, too, is thy father's blood, Pancratius," she said, 
with faltering voice and streaming eyes. " I gathered it my- 
self from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, 
and saw him die from the wounds he had received for Christ." 

She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and her 
gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And 
thus liquefied again, its color glowed bright and warm, as if it 
had only just left the martyr's heart. 

The holy matron put it to her son's quivering lips, and 
they were empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He vener- 
ated the sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Christian 
and a son ; and felt as if his father's spirit had descended into 
him, and stirred to its depths the full vessel of his heart, that 
its waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family 
thus seemed to him once more united. Lucina replaced her 
treasure in its shrine, and hung it round the neck of her son, 
saying : " When next it is moistened, may it be from a nobler 
stream than that which gushes from a weak woman's eyes ! " 
But heaven thought not so; and the future combatant was 
anointed, and the future martyr was consecrated, by the blood 
of his father mingled Avith his mother's tears. 




A piece of a "Gold glass" fonnd in the Catacomha. 



CTtf 




CHAPTER IV. 
THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD. 

HILE the scenes described in the three last 
chapters were taking place, a very different 
one presented itself in another house, situ- 
ated in the valley between the Quirinal 
and Esquiline hills. It was that of Fabius, 
a man of the equestrian order, whose family, 
by farming the revenues of Asiatic provinces, had amassed 
immense wealth. His house was larger and more splendid 
than the one we have already visited. It contained a third 
large peristyle, or court, surrounded by immense apartments ; 
and 'besides possessing many treasures of European art, it 
abounded with the rarest i^roductions of the East. Carpets 
from Persia were laid on the ground, silks from China, many- 
colored stuffs from Babylon, and gold embroidery from India 
and Phrygia covered the furniture; while curious works in 
ivory and in metals, scattered about, were attributed to the 
inhabitants of islands beyond the Indian ocean, of monstrous 
form and fabulous descent. 

Fabius himself, the owner of all this treasure and of large 
estates, was a true specimen of an easy-going Eoman, who 
was determined thoroughly to enjoy this life. In fact, he never 
dreamt of any other. Believing in nothing, yet worshipping, 
as a matter of course, on all proper occasions, whatever deity 
happened to have its turn, he passed for a man as good as 
his neighbors ; and no one had a right to exact more. The 



greater part of his day was passed at one or other of the great 
baths, which, besides the purposes implied in their name, 
comprised in their many adjuncts the equivalents of clubs, 
reading-rooms, gambling-houses, tennis-courts, and gymna- 
siums. There he took his bath, gossiped, read, and whiled 
away his hours ; or sauntered for a time into the Forum to 
hear some orator speaking, or some advocate pleading, or into 
one of the many public gardens, whither the fashionable world 
of Rome repaired. He returned home to an elegant supper, 
not later than our dinner; where he had daily guests, either 
previously invited, or picked up during the day, among the 
many parasites on the look-out for good fare. 

At home he was a kind and indulgent master. His house 
w^as well kept for him by an abundance of slaves; and, as 
trouble was what most he dreaded, so long as every thing was 
comfortable, handsome, and well-served about him, he let 
things go on quietly, under the direction of his freedmen. 

It is not, however, so much to him that we wish to intro- 
duce our reader, as to another inmate of his house, the sharer 
of its splendid luxury, and the sole heiress of his wealth. 
This is his daughter, who, according to Roman usage, bears 
the father's name, softened, however, into the diminutive 
Fabiola.* As we have done before, we will conduct the 
reader at once into her apartment. A marble staircase leads 
to it from the second court, over the sides of w^hich extends a 
suite of rooms, opening upon a terrace, refreshed and adorned 
by a graceful fountain, and covered with a profusion of the 
rarest exotic plants. In these chambers is concentrated 
whatever is most exquisite and curious, in native and foreign 
art. A refined taste directing anqDle means, and peculiar 
op])ortunities, has evidently presided over the collection and 
ari-angement of all around. At this moment, the hour of the 
evening repast is approaching ; and we discover the mistress 

* Pronounced with the accent on the i. 



of this dainty abode engaged in preparing herself, to appear 
with becoming splendor. 




Pompeian Couch. 



She is reclining on a couch of Athenian workmanship, 
inlaid with silver, in a room of Cyzicene form ; that is, hav- 
ing glass windows to the ground, and so opening on to the 
flowery terrace. Against the wall opposite to her hangs a 




Table, after a painting in Herculanetun. 



mirror of polished silver, sufficient to reflect a whole standing 
figure; on a porphyry-table beside it is a collection of the 
innumerable rare cosmetics and perfumes, of which the Roman 



ladies had become so fond, and on which they lavished 
immense sums.* On another, of Indian sandal-wood, was a 
rich display of jewels and trinkets in their precious caskets, 
from which to select for the day's use. 

It is by no means our intention, nor our gift, to describe 
persons or features ; we wish more to deal with minds. We 
will, therefore, content ourselves with saying, that Fabiola, 
now at the age of twenty, was not considered inferior in 
appearance to other ladies of her rank, age, and fortune, and 
had many aspirants for her hand. But she was a contrast to 
her father in temper and in character. Proud, haughty, 
imperious, and irritable, she ruled like an empress all that 




Couch from Herculaneum. 



surrounded her, with one or two exceptions, and exacted 
humble homage from all that approached her. An only 
child, whose mother had died in giving her birth, she had 
been nursed and brought up in indulgence by her careless, 
good-natured father; she had been provided with the best 
masters, had been adorned with every accomplishment, and 
allowed to gratify every extravagant Avish. She had never 
known what it was to deny herself a desire. 

Having been left so much to herself, she had read much, 
and especially in profounder books. She had thus become a 
complete philosopher of the refined, that is, the infidel and 
intellectual, epicureanism, which had been long fashionable in 
Kome. Of Christianity she knew nothing, except that she 

* The milk of 500 asses per day was required to furnish Poppaea, Nero's wife, 
with one cosmetic. 



understood it to be something very low, material, and vulgar. 
She despised it, in fact, too much to think of inquiring into it. 
And as to paganism, with its gods, its vices, its fables, and its 
idolatry, she merely scorned it, though outwardly she followed 
it. In fact, she believed in nothing beyond the present life, 
and thought of nothing except its refined enjoyment. But her 
very pride threw a shield over her virtue ; she loathed the 
wickedness of heathen society, as she despised the frivolous 




Elaborate Seat from Herculaueam. 



youths who paid her jealously exacted attention, for she found 
amusement in their follies. She was considered cold and 
selfish, but she was morally iri-eproachable. 

If at the beginning we seem to indulge in long descrip- 
tions, we trust that our reader will believe that they are 
requisite, to put him in possession of the state of material 
and social Kome at the period of our narrative; and will make 
this the more intelligible. And should he be tempted to think 
that we describe things as over splendid and refined for an 
age of decline in arts and good taste, we beg to remind him, 
that the year we are supposed to visit Rome is not as remote 



w 



from the better periods of Roman art, for example, that of the 
Antonines, as our age is from that of CelHni, Raffaele, or 
Donatello. Yet in how many Italian palaces are still pre- 
served works by these great artists, fully prized, though no 
longer imitated? So, no doubt, it was with the houses 
belonging to the old and wealthy families of Rome. 

We find, then, Fabiola reclining on her couch, holding in 
her left hand a silver mirror with a handle, and in the other a 
strange instrument for so fair a hand. It is a sharp-pointed 
stiletto, with a delicately carved ivory handle, and a gold ring, 
to hold it by. This was the favorite weapon with which 
Roman ladies punished their slaves, or vented their passion 
on them, upon suffering the least annoyance, or when irritated 
by pettish anger. Three female slaves are now engaged about 
their mistress. They belong to different races, and have been 
purchased at high prices, not merely on account of their 
appearance, but for some rare accomplishment they are sup- 
posed to possess. One is a black ; not of the degraded negro 
stock, but from one of those races, such as the Abyssinians 
and Numidians, in whom the features are as regular as in the 
Asiatic people. She is supposed to have great skill in herbs, 
and their cosmetic and healing properties, perhaps also in 
more dangerous uses — in compounding philtres, charms, and 
possibly poisons. She is merely known by her national 
designation as- Afra. A Greek comes next, selected for her 
taste in dress, and for the elegance and purity of her accent ; 
she is therefore called Graia. The name which the third 
bears, Syra, tells us that she comes from Asia; and she is 
distinguished for her exquisite embroidering, and for her 
assiduous diligence. She is quiet, silent, but completely 
engaged with the duties which now devolve upon her. The 
other two are garrulous, light, and make great pretence about 
any little thing they do. Every moment they address the 
most extravagant flattery to their young mistress, or try to 



m 



promote the suit of one or other of the profligate candidates 
for her hand, who has best or last bribed them. 

"How delighted I should be, most noble mistress," said 
the black slave, "if I could only be in the triclinium* this 
evening as you enter in, to observe the brilliant effect of this 
new stibium t on your guests ! It has cost me many trials 




A Slave. From a painting in Hercolaneum. 



A Slave. Prom a painting in Pompeii. 



before I could obtain it so perfect : I am sure nothing like it 
has been ever seen in Rome." 

" As for me," interrupted the wily Greek, " I should not 
presume to aspire to so high an honor. I should be satisfied 
to look from outside the door, and see the magnificent effect 
of this wonderful silk tunic, which came with the last remit- 



* The dininff-liall. 



f Black antimony applied on the eyelids. 



©" 
^ 



w 



tance of gold from Asia. Nothing can equal its beauty ; nor, 
I may add, is its arrangement, the result of my study, unworthy 
of the materials." 

"And you, Syra," interposed the mistress, with a con- 
temptuous smile, "what would you desire? and what have 
you to praise of your own doing?" 

" Nothing to desire, noble lady, but that you may be ever 
happy; nothing to praise of my own doing, for I am not 
conscious of having done more than my duty," was the modest 
and sincere reply. 

It did not please the haughty lady, who said, "Methinks, 
slave, that you are not over given to praise. One seldom 
hears a soft word from your mouth." 

"And what worth would it be from me," answered Syra; 
" from a poor servant to a noble dame, accustomed to hear it 
all day long from eloquent and polished lips? Do you 
believe it when you hear it from them ? Do you not despise 
it when you receive it from usf^^ 

A look of spite was darted at her from her two companions. 
Fabiola, too, was angry at what she thought a reproof. A lofty 
sentiment in a slave ! 

"Have you yet to learn, then," she answered haughtily, 
" that you are mine, and have been bought by me at a high 
price, that you might serve me as / please ? I have as good 
a right to the service of your tongue as of your arms ; and if 
it please me to be praised, and iiattered, and sung to, by you, 
do it you shall, whether you like it or not. A new idea, 
indeed, that a slave has to have any will but that of her 
mistress, when her very life belongs to her ! " 

"True," replied the handmaid, calmly but with dignity, 
" my life belongs to you, and so does all else that ends with 
life,— time, health, vigor, body, and breath. All this you 
have bought with your gold, and it has become your 
property. But I still hold as my OAvn what no emperor's 






wealth can purchase, no chains of slavery fetter, no limit 
of life contain." 

" And pray what is that? " 

" A soul." 

"A soul!" re-echoed the astonished Fabiola, who had 
never before heard a slave claim ownership of sucli a 
property. " And pray, let me ask you, what you mean 
by the word ? " 

" I cannot speak philosophical sentences," answered the 
servant, "but I mean that inward living consciousness within 
me, which makes me feel to have an existence with, and 
among, better things than surround me, which shrinks sensi- 
tively from destruction, and instinctively from what is allied 
to it, as disease is .to death. And therefore it abhors all 
flattery, and it detests a lie. While I possess that unseen 
gift, and die it cannot, either is impossible to me." 

The other two could understand but little of all this ; so 
they stood in stupid amazement at the presumption of their 
companion. Fabiola too was startled ; but her pride soon rose 
again, and she spoke with visible impatience. 

"Where did you learn all this folly? Who has taught 
you to prate in this manner ? For my part, I have studied 
for many years, and have come to the conclusion, that all 
ideas of spiritual existences are the dreams of poets, or 
sophists ; and as such I despise them. Do you, an ignorant, 
uneducated slave, pretend to know better than your mistress ? 
Or do you really fancy, that when, after death, your corpse 
will be thrown on the heap of slaves who have drunk them- 
selves, or have been scourged, to death, to be burnt in one 
ignominious pile, and when the mingled ashes have been 
buried in a common pit, you will survive as a conscious being, 
and have still a life of joy and freedom to be lived?" 

"' Non omnis moriar,''* as one of your poets says," replied 

* N'ot all of me will die. 





' Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an 
almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid." 







modestly, but with a fervent look that astonished her mistress, 
the foreign slave ; " yes, I hope, nay, I intend to survive all this. 
And more yet ; I believe, and know, that out of that charnel- 
pit which you have so vividly described, there is a hand that 
will pick out each charred fragment of my frame. And there 
is a power that will call to reckoning the four winds of heaven, 
and make each give back every grain of my dust that it has 
scattered ; and I shall be built up once more in this my body, 
not as yours, or any one's, bondwoman, but free, and joyful, 
and glorious, loving for ever, and beloved. This certain hope 
is laid up in my bosom." * 

"What wild visions of an eastern fancy are these, unfitting 
you for every duty ? You must be cured of them. In what 
school did you learn all this nonsense ? I never read of it in 
any Greek or Latin author." 

" In one belonging to my own land ; a school in which 
there is no distinction known, or admitted, between Greek or 
barbarian, freeman or slave." 

"What! " exclaimed, with strong excitement, the haughty 
lady, "without waiting even for that future ideal existence 
after death ; already, even now, you presume to claim equality 
with me? Nay, who knows, perhaps superiority ovei' me. 
Come, tell me at once, and without daring to equivocate or 
disguise, if you do so or not? " And she sat up in an atti- 
tude of eager expectation. At every word of the calm reply 
her agitation increased ; and violent passions seemed to con- 
tend within her, as Syra said: 

" Most noble mistress, far superior are you to me in place, 
and power, and learning, and genius, and in all that enriches 
and embellishes life ; and in every grace of form and linea- 
ment, and in every charm of act and speech, high are you 
raised above all rivalry, and far removed from envious 
thought, from one so lowly and so insignificant as I. But if I 

* Job xix. 27. 



I® 



must answer simple truth to your authoritative question " — 
she paused, as faltering ; but an imperious gesture from her mis- 
tress bade her continue — "then I put it to your own judgment, 
whether a poor slave, who holds an unquenchable conscious- 
ness of possessing within her a spiritual and living intelli- 
gence, whose measure of existence is immortality, whose only 
true place of dwelling is above the skies, whose only rightful 
prototype is the Deity, can hold herself inferior in moral dig- 
nity, or lower in greatness of thought, than one who, however 
gifted, owns that she claims no higher destiny, recognizes in 
herself no sublimer end, than what awaits the pretty irra- 
tional songsters that beat, without hope of liberty, against 
the gilded bars of that cage." * 

Fabiola's eyes flashed with fury ; she felt herself, for the 
first time in her life, rebuked, humbled by a slave. She 
grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost 
blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid. Syra instinctively 
put forward her arm to save her person, and received the 
point, which, aimed upwards from the couch, inflicted a 
deeper gash than she had ever before suffered. The tears 
started into her eyes through the smart of the wound, from 
which the blood gushed in a stream. Fabiola was in a mo- 
ment ashamed of her cruel, though unintentional, act, and felt 
still more humbled before her servants. 

" Go, go," she said to Syra, who was stanching the blood 
with her handkerchief, "go to Euphrosyne, and have the wound 
dressed. I did not mean to hurt you so grievously. But stay 
a moment, I must make you some compensation." Then, 
after turning over her trinkets on the table, she continued, 
"Take this ring; and you need not return here again this 
evening." 

Fabiola's conscience was quite satisfied; she had made 

* See the noble answer of Evalpistus, an imperial slave, to the judge, in the 
Acts of St. Justin, ap. Euinart, torn. i. 




"He who watched with beaming eye, the alms-eoffers of Jerusalem, 
and noted the widow's mite, alone saw dropped into the ehest, by 
the iDandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a valuable emerald 
ring." 



what she considered ample atonement for the injury she had 
inflicted, in the shape of a costly present to a menial de- 
pendant. And on the following Sunday, in the title* of St. 
Pastor, not far from her house, among the alms collected for 
the poor was found a valuable emerald ring, which the good 
priest Polycarp thought must have been the offering of some 
very rich Koman lady; but which He who watched, with 
beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the 
widow's mite, alone saw dropped into the chest by the ban- 
daged arm of a foreign female slave. 

* Church. 




A Lamp, found in the Catacombs. 






E 




CHAPTER V. 

THE VISIT. 

jTJKING tlie latter part of the dialogue just 
recorded, and the catastrophe which closed 
it, there took place an apparition in Fabi- 
ola'sroom, which, if seen by her, would prob- 
qMj have cut short the one and prevented 
the other. The interior chambers in a Eo- 
man house were more frequently divided by 
curtains across their entrances than by doors; and 
thus it was easy, especially during such an excited 
scene as had just taken place, to enter unobserved. 
This was the case now ; and when Syra turned to leave 
the room she was almost startled at seeing standing, in bright 
relief before the deep crimson door-curtain, a figure which she 
immediately recognized, but which we must briefly describe. 

It was that of a lady, or rather a child not more than 
twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in pure and spotless 
white, withont a single ornament about her person. In her 
countenance might be seen united the simplicity of childhood 
with the intelligence of a maturer age. There not merely 
dwelt in her eyes that dove-like innocence which the sacred 
poet describes,* but often there beamed from them rather an 
intensity of pure affection, as though they were looking be- 
yond all surrounding objects, and rested upon one, unseen by 
all else, but to her really present and exquisitely dear. Her 

* " Thy eyes are as those of doves. — Gantic. i. 14. 



forehead was the very seat of candor, open and bright with un- 
disguising truthfulness ; a kindly smile played about the lips, 
and the fresh, youthful features varied their sensitive expres- 
sion with guileless earnestness, passing rapidly from one feel- 
ing to the other, as her warm and tender heart received it. 
Those who knew her believed that she never thought of her- 
self, but was divided entirely between kindness to those about 
her, and affection for her unseen love. 

When Syra saw this beautiful vision, like that of an angel, 
before her, she paused for a moment. But the child took her 
hand and reverently kissed it, saying, "I have seen all; meet 
me in the small chamber near the entrance, when I go out." 

She then advanced ; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson 
blush mantled in her cheek; for she feared the child had been 
witness of her undignified burst of passion. With a cold 
wave of her hand she dismissed her slaves, and then greeted 
her kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial affection. We 
have said that Fabiola's temper made a few exceptions in its 
haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed- 
woman Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household, 
and whose only creed was, that Fabiola was the most perfect 
of beings, the wisest, most accomplished, most admirable lady 
in Eome. Another was her young visitor, whom she loved, 
and ever treated with gentlest affection, and whose society 
she always coveted. 

" This is really kind of you, dear Agnes," said the softened 
Fabiola, "to come at my sudden request, to join our table 
to-day. But the fact is, my father has called in one or two 
new people to dine, and I was anxious to have some one with 
whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse. Yet I 
own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is 
Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear 
so much ; though nobody seems to know who or what he is, 
or whence he has sprung up." 



" My dear Fabiola," replied Agnes, "you know I am always 
happy to visit you, and my kind parents willingly allow me ; 
therefore, make no apologies about that." 

" And so you have come to me as usual," said the other 
playfully, "in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or 
ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always 
seem to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, 
good heavens ! what is this ? Are you hurt ? Or are you 




Saint Agu( 



aware that there is, right On the bosom of your tunic, a large 
red spot — it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress 
at once." 

" ISTot for the world, Fabiola ; it is the jewel, the only orna- 
ment I mean to wear this evening. It is blood, and that of a 
slave ; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows 
in your veins or mine." 

The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola' s mind. Agnes had 
seen all; and humbled almost to sickening, she said some- 
what pettishly, "Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the 
world of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward 
slave?" 

"JSTo, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve 



TO 



for myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, 
learnt from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can 
teach us." 

"What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often 
thought that you make too much of that class of people. 
After all, what are they?" 

" Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the 
same reason, the same feelings, the same organization. Thus 




Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican Museum. 

far you will admit, at any rate, to go no higher. Then they 
form part of the same family ; and if God, from whom comes 
owr life, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as much, and con- 
sequently they are our brethren." 

"A slave my brother or sister, Agnes? The gods forbid 
it! They are our property and our goods; and I have no 
notion of their being allowed to move, to act, to think, 
or to feel, except as it suits their masters, or is for their 
advantage." 

"Come, come," said Agnes, with her sweetest tones, "do 
not let us get into a warm discussion. Tou are too candid 
and honorable not to feel, and to be ready to acknowledge, 
that to-day you have been outdone by a slave in all that you 



w 



g^ 



most admire, — in mind, in reasoning, in truthfulness, and in 
heroic fortitude. Do not answer me; I see it in that tear. 
But, dearest cousin, I will save you from a repetition of your 
pain. Will you grant me my request? " 

'Any in my power." 

" Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra — I 
think that is her name. You will not like to see her about 
you." 

" You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, 
and own, that I shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire 
her. It is a new feeling in me towards one in her station." 

"But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than 
she is." 

"No doubt, dear Agnes; you have the power of making 
every body happy about you. I never saw such a household 
as yours. You seem to carry out in practice that strange 
philosophy which Syra alluded to, in which there is no 
distinction of freeman and slave. Every body in your house 
is always smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his 
duty. And there seems to be no one who thinks of com- 
manding. Come, tell me your secret." (Agnes smiled.) "I 
suspect, you little magician, that in that mysterious chamber, 
Avhich you will never open for me, you keep your charms and 
potions by which you make every body and every thing love 
you. If you were a Christian, and were exposed in the 
amphitheatre, I am sure the very leopards would crouch and 
nestle at your feet. But why do you look so serious, child ? 
You know I am only joking." 

Agnes seemed absorbed ; and bent forward that keen and 
tender look which we have mentioned, as though she saw 
before her, nay, as if she heard si)eaking to her, some one 
delicately beloved. It passed away, and she gaily said, 
"Well, well, Fabiola, stranger things have come to pass; 
and at any rate, if aught so dreadful had to happen, Syra 



would just be the sort of person one would like to see near 
one ; so you really must let me have her." 

" For heaven's sake, Agnes, do not take my words so 
seriously. I assure you they were spoken in jest. I have too 
high an opinion of your good sense to believe such a calamity 
possible. But as to Syra's devotedness, you are right. When 
last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously ill of 
contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves 
approach me; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, 
but watched by me, and nursed me day and night, and I really 
believe greatly promoted my recovery." 

" And did you not love her for this ? " 

"Love her! Love a slave, child! Of course, I took care 
to reward her generously; though I cannot make out what 
she does with what I give her. The others tell me she has 
nothing put by, and she certainly spends nothing on herself. 
Nay, I have even heard that she foolishly shares her daily 
allowance of food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange 
fancy, to be sure ! " 

" Dearest Fabiola," exclaimed Agnes, " she must be mine ! 
You promised me my request. Name your price, and let me 
take her home this evening." 

"Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But 
we will not bargain together. Send some one to-morrow, to 
see my father's steward, and all will be right. And now this 
great piece of business being settled between us, let us go 
down to our guests." 

"But you have forgotten to put on your jewels." 

"Never mind them; I will do without them for once; I 
feel no taste for them to-day." 



ffi 



CHAPTER VI. 



THE BANQUET. 




IHET found, on descending, all the guests as- 
sembled in a hall below. It was not a state 
banquet which they were going to share, 
but the usual meal of a rich house, where 
preparation for a tableful of friends was 
always made. We will therefore content 
ourselves with saying that every thing was 
elegant and exquisite in arrangement and material ; and we 
will confine ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw 
a light upon our story. 

When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, 
after saluting his daughter, exclaimed, " Why, my child, you 
have come down, though late, still scarcely fittingly arranged ! 
You have forgotten your usual trinkets." 

Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to 
make : she was ashamed of her weakness about her angry 
display ; and still more of what she now thought a silly way 
of punishing herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the rescue, 
and blushingly said : " It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that 
she is late and that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her 
with my gossip, and no doubt she wishes to keep me in coun- 
tenance by the simplicity of her attire." 

"You, dear Agnes," replied the father, "are privileged to 
do as you please. But, seriously speaking, I must say that, 
even with you, this may have answered while you were a 



mere child ; now that you are marriageable,* you must begin 
to make a little more display, and try to win the affections of 
some handsome and eligible youth. A beautiful necklace, for 
instance, such as you have plenty of at home, would not make 
you less attractive. But you are not attending to me. Come, 
come, I dare say you have some one already in view." 

During most of this address, which was meant to be thor- 
oughly good-natured, as it was perfectly worldly, Agnes ap- 
peared in one of her abstracted moods, her bewitched looks, 
as Fabiola called them, transfixed, in a smiling ecstasy, as if 
attending to some one else, but never losing the thread of the 
discourse, nor saying any thing out of place. She therefore at 
once answered Fabius: "Oh, yes, most certainly, one who 
has already pledged me to him by his betrothal-ring, and has 
adorned me with immense jewels, "t 

" Keally ! " asked Fabius, " with what? " 

" Why," answered Agnes, with a look of glowing earnest- 
ness, and in tones of artless simplicity, "he has girded my 
hand and neck with precious gems, and has set in my ears 
rings of peerless pearls."! 

" Goodness ! who can it be ? Come, Agnes, some day you 
must tell me your secret. Your first love, no doubt ; may it 
last long and make you happy ! " 

"For ever! " was her reply, as she turned to join Fabiola, 
and enter with her into the dining-room. It was well she 
had not overheard this dialogue, or she would have been hurt 
to the quick, as thinking that Agnes had concealed the most 
important thought of her age, as she would have considered 
it, from her most loving friend. But while Agnes was defend- 



* Twelve was the age for marriage according to the Roman law. 

f "Annnlo fidei sues subarrhavit me, et immensis monilibiis ornavit me." — 
Office of St. Agnes. 

I "Dexteram meam et collum meum cinxit lapidibus pretiosis, tradidit auri- 
bus meis insestimabiles margaritas." 



ing her, she had turned away from her father, and had been 
attending to the other guests. One was a heavy, thick-necked 
Roman sophist, or dealer in universal knowledge, named Cal- 
purnius ; another, Proculus, a mere lover of good fare, often at 
the house. Two more remain, deserving further notice. The 
first of them, evidently a favorite both with Fabiola and 
Agnes, was a tribune, a high officer of the imperial or praetorian 
guard. Though not above thirty years of age, he had already 
distinguished himself by his valor, and enjoyed the highest 
favor with the emperors Dioclesian in the East, and Maximian 
Herculius in Rome, He was free from all affectation in man- 
ner or dress, though handsome in person ; and though most 
engaging in conversation, he manifestly scorned the foolish 
topics which generally occupied society. In short, he was a 
perfect specimen of a noble-hearted youth, full of honor and 
generous thoughts; strong and brave, without a particle of 
pride or display in him. 

Quite a contrast to him was the last guest, already alluded 
to by Fabiola, the new star of society, Fulvius. Young, and 
almost effeminate in look, dressed with most elaborate ele- 
gance, with brilliant rings on every finger and jewels in his 
dress, affected in his speech, which had a slightly foreign 
accent, overstrained in his courtesy of manners, but apparently 
good-natured and obliging, he had in a short time quietly 
pushed his way into the highest society of Rome. This was, 
indeed, owing partly to his having been seen at the imperial 
court, and partly to the fascination of his manner. He had 
arrived in Rome accompanied by a single elderly attendant, 
evidently deeply attached to him ; whether slave, freedman, 
or friend, nobody well knew. They spoke together always in 
a strange tongue, and the swarthy features, keen fiery eye, 
and unamiable expression of the domestic, inspired a certain 
degree of fear in his dependants ; for Fulvius had taken an 
apartment in what was called an insula, or house let out in 



Dtr 



w 



parts, had furnished it luxuriously, and had peopled it with a 
sufficient bachelor's establishment of slaves. Profusion rather 
than abundance distinguished all his domestic arrangements ; 
and, in the corrupted and degraded circle of pagan Rome, the 
obscurity of his history, and the suddenness of his apparition, 
were soon forgotten in the evidence of his riches, and the 
charm of his loose conversation. A shrewd observer of char- 
acter, however, would soon notice a wandering restlessness of 
eye, and an eagerness of listening attention for all sights and 
sounds around him, which betrayed an insatiable curiosity; 
and in moments of forge tfulness, a dark scowl under his knit 
brows, from his flashing eyes, and a curling of the upper lip, 
which inspired a feeling of mistrust, and gave an idea that 
his exterior softness only clothed a character of feline 
malignity. 

The guests were soon at table ; and as ladies sat, while 
men reclined on couches during the repast, Fabiola and 
Agnes were together on one side, the t^wo younger guests last 




Banqnet Table, from a Pompeian painting. 

described were opposite, and the master, with his two elder 
friends, in the middle — if these terms can be used to describe 
their position about three joarts of a round table ; one side 
being left unencumbered by the sigma* or semi-circular 
couch, for the convenience of serving. And we may observe, 
in passing, that a table-cloth, a luxury unknown in the times 
of Horace, was now in ordinary use. 

* So called from its resemblance to the letter C, the old form of S. 



is U U 



When the first claims of hunger, or the palate, had been 
satisfied, conversation grew more general. 

" What news to-day at the baths ? " asked Calpm-nius; "I 
have no leisure myself to look after such trifles." 

"Very interesting news indeed," answered Proculus. "It 
seems quite certain that orders have been received from the 
divine Dioclesian, to finish his Thermae in three years." 

"Impossible!" exclaimed Fabius. "I looked in at the 
works the other day, on my way to Sallust's gardens, and 
found them very little advanced in the last year. There is an 
immense deal of heavy work to be done, such as carving 
marbles and shaping columns." 

"True," interposed Fulvius; "but I know that orders 
have been sent to all parts, to forward hither all prisoners, 
and all persons condemned to the mines in Spain, Sardinia, 
and even Chersonesus, who can possibly be spared, to come 
and labor at the Thermae. A few thousand Christians, thus 
set to the work, will soon finish it." 

" And why Christians better than other criminals? " asked, 
with some curiosity, Fabiola. 

"Why, really," said Fulvius, with his most winning smile, 
"I can hardly give a reason for it ; but the fact is so. Among 
fifty workmen so condemned, I would engage to pick out a 
single Christian." 

" Indeed ! " exclaimed several at once ; " pray how ? " 

"Ordinary convicts," answered he, "naturally do not love 
their work, and they require the lash at every step to compel 
them to perform it ; and when the overseer's eye is off them, 
no work is done. And, moreover, they are, of course, rude, 
sottish, quarrelsome, and querulous. But the Christians, 
when condemned to these public works, seem, on the contrary, 
to be glad, and are always cheerful and obedient. I have seen 
young patricians so occupied in Asia, whose hands had never 
before handled a pickaxe, and whose weak shoulders had never 



p n n 



borne a weight, yet working hard, and as happy, to all appear- 
ance, as when at home. Of course, for all that, the overseers 
apply the lash and the stick very freely to them ; and most 
justly ; because it is the will of the divine emperors that their 
lot should be made as hard as possible ; but still they never 
complain." 

"I cannot say that I admire this sort of justice," replied 
Fabiola; " but what a strange race they must be ! 1 am most 
curious to know what can be the motive or cause of this 
stupidity, or unnatural insensibility, in these Christians? " 

Proculus replied, with a facetious look : " Calpurnius here 
no doubt can tell us; for he is a philosopher, and I hear 
could declaim for an hour on any topic, from the Alps to an 
ant-hill." 

Calpurnius, thus challenged, and thinking himself highly 
complimented, solemnly gave mouth: "The Christians," said 
he, " are a foreign sect, the founder of which flourished many 
ages ago in Chaldea. His doctrines were brought to Rome at 
the time of Vespasian by two brothers named Peter and Paul. 
Some maintain that these were the same twin brothers as the 
Jews call Moses and Aaron, the second of wdiom sold his 
birthright to his brother for a kid, the skin of which he 
wanted to make cliirothecw* of. But this identity I do not 
aduiit ; as it is recorded in the mystical books of the Jews, 
that the second of these brothers, seeing the other's victims 
give better omens of birds than his own, slew him, as our 
Komulus did Remus, but Avith the jaw-bone of an ass; for 
which he was hung by King Mardochteus of Macedon, upon a 
gibbet fifty cubits high, at the suit of their sister Judith. 
However, Peter and Paul coming, as I said, to Rome, the 
former was discovered to be a fugitive slave of Pontius Pilate, 
and was crucified by his master's orders on the Janiculum. 
Their followers, of whom they had many, made the cross their 

* Gloves. 



"M 

■^T® 



sjaiibol, and adore it; and they think it the greatest honor to 
suffer strij^es, and even ignominious death, as the best means 
of being like their teachers, and, as they fancy, of going to 
them in a place somewhere among the clouds." * 

Tliis lucid explanation of the origin of Christianity was 
listened to with admiration by all except two. The young 
officer gave a piteous look towards Agnes, which seemed to 
say, "Shall I answer the goose, or shall I laugh outright?" 
But she put her finger on her lips, and smiled imploringly for 
silence. 

"Well, then, the upshot of it is," observed Proculus, "that 
the Thermte will be finished soon, and we shall have glorious 
sport. Is it not said. Fulvius, that the divine Dioclesian will 
himself come to the dedication? " 

"It is quite certain ; and so will there be splendid festivals 
and glorious games. But we shall not have to wait so long; 
already, for other purposes, have orders been sent to Numidia 
for an unlimited supply of lions and leopards to be ready before 
winter." Then turning round sharp to his neighbor, he said, 
bending a keen eye upon his countenance : "A brave soldier 
like you, Sebastian, must be delighted with the noble specta- 
cles of the amphitheatre, especially when directed against the 
enemies of the august emperors, and of the republic." 

The officer raised himself upon his couch, looked on his 
interrogator with an unmoved, majestic countenance, and 
answered calmly: 

" Fulvius, I should not deserve the title which you give me, 
could I contemplate with jDleasure, in cold blood, the struggle, 
if it deserve the name, between a brute beast and a helpless 
child or woman, for such are the spectacles which you call 
noble. No, I will draw my sword willingly against any 
enemy of the princes or the state ; but I would as readily draw 
it against the lion or the leopard that should rush, even by 

* Lucian : De Morte Peregrini. 






^ 



imperial order, against the innocent and defenceless." Fiil- 
vius Avas starting up ; but Sebastian placed his strong hand 
upon his arm, and continued : "Hear me out. I am not the 
first Eoman, nor the noblest, who has thought thus before me. 
Eemember the words of Cicero : ' Magnificent are these games, 
no doubt ; but what delight can it be to a refined mind to see 
either a feeble man torn by a most powerful beast, or a noble 
animal pierced through by a javelin? '* I am not ashamed 
of agreeing with the greatest of Roman orators." 

"Then shall we never see you in the amphitheatre, Sebas- 
tian?" asked Fulvius, with a bland but taunting tone. 

"If you do," the soldier replied, "depend upon it, it will 
be on the side of the defenceless, not on that of the brutes that 
would destroy them." 

"Sebastian is right," exclaimed Fabiola, clapping her 
hands, "and I close the discussion by my applause. I have 
never heard Sebastian speak, except on the side of generous 
and high-minded sentiments." 

Fulvius bit his lip in silence, and all rose to depart. 

* " Magnificee nemo negat ; seel quse potest esse homini polito delectatio, 
qiium aut homo imbecillus a valentissima bestia laniatur, aut prseclara bestia vena- 
bulo transverberatur?"— ^iJ. ad Fam. lib. vii. ep. 1. 




David with his Sling, from the Catacomb of St. Petronilla. 



CHAPTER VII 



POOR AND RICH. 




URING the latter part of the conver- 
sation just recorded, Fabius had been 
quite abstracted, speculating upon 
his conversation with Agnes. How 
quietly she had kept her secret to 
herself ! But who could this favored 
person be, who had already won her 
heart ? He thought over many, but 
could find no answer. The gift of 
rich jewels particularly _ perplexed him. He knew 
no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them ; 
and sauntering, as he did, every day into the great 
shops, he was sure to have heard if any such costly order 
had been given. Suddenly the bright idea flashed through 
his mind, that Fulvius, who daily exhibited new and splendid 
gems, brought from abroad, could be the only person able 
to make her such presents. He moreover noticed such 
occasional looks darted towards his cousin by the handsome 
foreigner, as left him no doubt that he was deeply enamored 
of her ; and if Agnes did not seem conscious of the admira- 
tion, this of course was part of her plan. Once convinced 
of this important conclusion, he determined to favor the 
wishes of the two, and astonish his daughter one day by the 
sagacity he had displayed. 

But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble 



scenes, and follow Syra from the time that she left her young 
mistress's apartment. When she presented herself to Eu- 
phrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel 
wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately 
recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided be- 
tween two contending feelings. " Poor thing ! " she said, as 
she went on first washing, then closing and dressing, the 
gash ; " it is a dreadful cut! What did you do to deserve it? 
How it must have hurt you, my poor girl ! But how wicked 
you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a savage 
wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures ! (You must 
be faint from loss of blood ; take this cordial to support you) : 
and no doubt she found herself obliged to strike." 

"No doubt," said Syra, amused, "it was all my fault; I 
had no business to argue with my mistress." 

'' Argue with her! — argue! — ye gods! who ever heard 
before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a 
learned one! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of 
disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so — so agi- 
tated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this 
must be concealed ; it must not be known that you have been 
so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw 
round the arm, as if for ornament ? All the others I know 
have plenty, given or bought ; but you never seem to care for 
these pretty things. Let us look." 

She went into the maid-slave's dormitory, which was 
within her room, opened Syra's capsa or box, and after turn- 
ing over in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the 
bottom a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently em- 
broidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed 
deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most dis- 
proportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of 
better days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, 
anxious to hide her mistress's fault, was inexorable; and 



the ricli scarf was gracefully fastened round the wounded 
arm. 

This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little par- 
lor opposite the porter's room, where the higher slaves could 
see their friends. She held in her hand a basket covered 
with a napkin. The moment she entered the door a light 
step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was 
that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the 
poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round 
Syra's neck with such a bright countenance and such hearty 
glee, that a bystander would hardly have supposed that her 
sightless eyes had never communed with the outer world. 

" Sit down, dear Caacilia," said Syra, with a most affec- 
tionate tone, and leading her to a seat; "to-day I have 
brought you a famous feast; you will fare sumptuously." 

" How so? I think I do every day." 

"No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a 
dainty dish from her table, and I have brought it here for 
you." 

"How kind of her; yet how much kinder of you, my 
sister! But why have you not partaken of it yourself? It 
was meant for you and not for me." 

" Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me, to see 
you enjoy any thing, than to enjoy it myself." 

" No, dear Syra, no; it must not be. God has wished me 
to be poor, and I must try to do His will. I could no more 
think of eating the food, than I could of wearing the dress, of 
the rich, so long as I can obtain that of the poor. I love to 
share with you jonr pulmentum* which I know is given me in 
charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the merit 
of alms-deeds ; you give me the consolation of feeling that I 
am, before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He 
will love me better thus, than if feeding on luxurious fare. I 

* Porridge. 









would rather be with Lazarus at the gate, than with Dives 
at the table." 

" How much better and wiser you are than I, my good 
child ! It shall be as you wish. I will give the dish to my 
companions, and, in the meantime, here I set before you your 
usual humble fare." 

" Thanks, thanks, dear sister ; I will await your return." 
Syra went to the maids' apartment, and put before her 
jealous but greedy companions the silver dish. As their mis- 
tress occasionally showed them this little kindness, it did not 
much surprise them. But the poor servant was weak enough 
to feel ashamed of appearing before her comrades with the 
rich scarf round her arm. She took it off before she entered ; 
then, not wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as 
well as she could with one hand, on coming out. She was in 
the court below, returning to her blind friend, when she saw 
one of the noble guests of her mistress's table alone, and, 
with a mortified look, crossing towards the door, and she 
stepped behind a column to avoid any possible, and not un- 
common, rudeness. It was Fulvius ; and no sooner did she, 
unseen, catch a glimpse of him, than she stood for a moment 
as one nailed to the spot. Her heart beat against her bosom, 
then quivered as if about to cease its action; her knees 
struck against one another, a shiver ran through her frame, 
while perspiration started on her brow. Her eyes, wide 
open, were fascinated, like the bird's before the snake. She 
raised her hand to her breast, made upon it the sign of life, 
and the spell was broken. She fled in an instant, still un- 
noticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly behind a curtain 
that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with downcast eyes, 
reached the spot on which she had stood. He started back 
a step, as if scared by something lying before him. He 
trembled violently; but recovering himself by a sudden 
effort, he looked around him and saw that he was alone. 



--M 



There was no eye upon him — except One which he did not 
heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed 
again upon the object, and stooped to pick it up, but drew 
back his hand, and that more than once. At last he heard 
footsteps approaching, he recognized the martial tread of 
Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the 
rich scarf which had dropped from Syra's arm. He shook as 
he folded it up ; and when, to his horror, he found upon it 
spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandages, 
he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his 
lodgings. 

Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, 
repulsing roughly the of&cious advances of his slaves ; and 
only beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and 
then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning 
brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroid- 
ered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. 
That dark man said nothing ; but his swarthy countenance 
was blanched, while his master's was ashy and livid. 

" It is the same, no doubt," at length spoke the attendant 
in their foreign tongue ; " but she is certainly dead." 

"Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?" asked the master, with 
the keenest of his hawk's looks. 

" As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. 
Where didst thou find this ? And whence this blood ? " 

" I will tell thee all to-morrow ; I am too sick to-night. 
As to those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know 
not whence they came, unless they are warnings of venge- 
ance — nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could 
meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood has not 
been shed now.''^ 

"Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did 
any one see thee pick the — the thing up? " 

" No one, I am sure." 



"Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others'. 
A good night's rest will give us better counsel." 

"True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my 
chamber." 

Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a 
rich bed, Eurotus on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon 
his elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the 
lamp's light, the troubled slumbers of the youth — at once his 
devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about 
and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and 
heav}' . First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant 
land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. 
Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, 
waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The 
scene changes ; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling 
with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the 
same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrum- 
pled by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, 
and all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But 
the topmast stands above the billows, with its calm and brill- 
iant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a 
form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies 
by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger 
displays it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads 
upon it, written in fiery letters, JSTemesis.* 

But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the 
house of Fabius. 

After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius she paused 
to compose herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to 
her blind friend. She had finished her frugal meal, and was 
waiting patiently the slave's return. Syra then commenced 
her daily duties of kindness and hospitality; she brought 
water, washed her hands and feet in obedience to Christian 



d4f® 



practice, and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor 
creature had been her own child. Indeed, though not much 
older, her look was so tender, as she hung over her poor 
friend, her tones were so soft, her whole action so motherly, 
that one would have thought it was a parent ministering to 
her daughter, rather than a slave serving a beggar. And 
this beggar, too, looked so happy, spoke so cheerily, and said 
such beautiful things, that Syra lingered over her work to 
listen to her, and gaze on her. 

It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed 
interview, and Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the 
door. But when Agnes softly raised the curtain, and caught 
a sight of the scene before her, she beckoned to Fabiola to 
look in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The blind girl was 
opposite, and her voluntary servant on one side, unconscious 
of witnesses. The heart of Fabiola was touched; she had 
never imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested 
love on earth between strangers ; as to charity, it was a word 
unknown to Greece or Kome. She retreated quietly, with a 
tear in her eye, and said to Agnes, as she took leave : 

" I must retire ; that girl, as you know, proved to me this 
afternoon that a slave may have a head ; she has now shown 
me that she may have a heart. I was amazed, when, a few 
hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a slave. I think, 
now, I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have 
agreed to part with her." 

As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, 
and laughing, said : 

" So, Csecilia, I have found out your secret at last. This 
is the friend whose food you have always said was so much 
better than mine, that you would never eat at my house. 
Well, if the dinner is not better, at any rate I agree that you 
have fallen in with a better hostess." 

"Oh, don't say so, sweet Lady Agnes," answered the 



blind girl: "it is the dinner indeed that is better. You 
have plenty of opportunities for exercising charity; but a 
poor slave can only do so by finding some one still poorer, 
and helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far 
the sweetest." 

"Well, you are right," said Agnes, "and I am not sorry 
to have you present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. 
It will make you happy too. Fabiola has allowed me to be- 
come your mistress, Syra, and to take you with me. To- 
morrow you shall be free, and a dear sister to me." 

Ciecilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her 
arms round Syra's neck, exclaimed : " Oh, how good ! How 
happy you will now be, dear Syra ! " 

But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering 
voice, " good and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed, to 
think so much about one like me. But pardon me if I entreat 
you to remain as I am; I assure you, dear Csecilia, I am 
quite happy here." 

" But why wish to stay? " asked Agnes. 

"Because," rejoined Syra, "it is most perfect to abide 
with God, in the state wherein we have been called.* I own 
this is not the one in which I was born ; I have been brought 
to it by others." A burst of tears interrupted her for a 
moment, and then she went on. "But so much the more 
clear is it to me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this 
condition. How can I wish to leave it? " 

"Well then," said Agnes, still more eagerly, "we can 
easily manage it. I will not free you, and you shall be my 
bondwoman. That will be just the same." 

"No, no," said Syra, smiling, "that will never do. Our 
great Apostle's instructions to us are : ' Servants be subject to 
your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but 
also to the froward.' f I am far from saying that my mistress 

* 1 Cor. Tii. 24. f 1 Pet. ii. 14. 



is one of these ; but you, noble Lady Agnes, are too good and 
gentle for me. Where would be my cross, if I lived with you ? 
Tou do not know how proud and headstrong I am by nature ; 
and I should fear for myself, if I had not some pain and 
humiliation." 

Agnes was almost overcome ; but she was more eager 
than ever to possess such a treasure of virtue, and said, 
" I see, Syra, that no motive addressed to your own interest 
can move you, I must therefore use a more selfish plea. 
I want to have you with me, that I may improve by your 
advice and example. Come, you will not refuse such a 
request." 

" Selfish," replied the slave, " you can never be. And 
therefore I will appeal to yourself from your request. You 
know Fabiola, and you love her. What a noble soul, and 
what a splendid intellect she possesses ! What great quali- 
ties and high accomplishments, if they only reflected the light 
of truth ! And how jealously does she guard in herself that 
pearl of virtues, which only we know how to prize ! What a 
truly great Christian she would make ! " 

" Go on, for G-od's sake, dear Syra," broke out Agnes, all 
eagerness. " And do you hope for it ? " 

"It is my prayer day and night ; it is my chief thought 
and aim ; it is the occupation of my life. I will try to win 
her by patience, by assiduity, even by such unusual discussions 
as we have held to-day. And when all is exhausted, I have 
one resource more." 

" What is that? " both asked. 

" To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor 
slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer 
persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not 
disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, 
my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, 
best of ladies," she exclaimed, falling on her knees and 



bedewing Agnes' s hand with tears, "do not come in thus 
between me and my prize." 

" You have conquered, sister Syra (oh ! never again call 
me lady)," said Agnes. "Kemain at your post; such single- 
hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for 
so homely a sphere as my household." 

"And I, for my part," subjoined Cuecilia, with a look of 
arch gravity, " say that she has said one very wicked thing, 
and told a great story, this evening." 

"What is that, my pet? " asked Syra, laughing. 

"Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, 
because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which 
would have gratified my palate for a few minutes, at the 
expense of an act of greediness ; while you have given up lib- 
erty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have 
offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is 
your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie ! how could you tell me 
such a thing ! " 

The servant now announced that Agnes' s litter was wait- 
ing at the door ; and any one who could have seen the affec- 
tionate farewell of the three, — the noble lady, the slave, and 
the beggar, would have justly exclaimed, as people had often 
done before, " See how these Christians love one another! " 




A Dove, as a Symbol of the Soul, found in the Catacombs. 



CHAPTER VIII, 




THE FIRST DAY'S CONCLUSION. 



^^F we linger a little time about the door, and 
see Agnes fairly off, and listen to the merry 
conversation between her and Ct^cilia, in which 
Agnes asks her to allow herself to be accom- 
panied home by one of her attendants, as it has 
grown dark, and the girl is amused at the lady's 
forgetfulness that day and night are the same 
'^'J '-" to her, and that on this very account she is the 
appointed guide to thread the mazes of the catacombs, familiar 
to her as the streets of Rome, which she walks in safety at all 
hours; if thus we pass a little time before re-entering, to 
inquire how the mistress within fares after the day's adven- 
tures, we shall find the house turned topsy-turvy. Slaves, 
with lamps and torches, are running about in every direction, 
looking for something or other that is lost, in every possible 
and impossible place. Eu])hrosyne insists it must be found ; 
till at last the search is given up in despair. The reader will 
probably have anticipated the solution of the mystery. Syra 
had presented herself to have her wound re-dressed, according 
to orders, and the scarf which had bound it was no longer 
there. She could give no account of it, further than that she 
had taken it off, and put it on, certainly not so well as 
Euphrosyne had done it, and she gave the reason, for she 
scorned to tell a lie. Indeed she had never missed it till now. 
The kind-hearted old nurse was umch grieved at the loss. 



which she considered must be heavy to a poor slave-girl, as 
she probably reserved that object for the purchase of her 
liberty. And Syra too was sorry, but for reasons which she 
could not have made the good housekeeper comprehend. 

Euphrosyne had all the servants interrogated, and many 
even searched, to Syra's great pain and confusion ; and then 
ordered a grand general battue through every part of the 
house w^here Syra had been. Who for a moment could have 
dreamt of suspecting a noble guest at the master's table of 
purloining any article, valuable or not ? The old lady there- 
fore came to the conclusion, that the scarf had been spirited 
away by some magical process; and greatly suspected that 
the black slave Afra, who she knew could not bear Syra, had 
been using some spell to annoy the poor girl. For she believed 
the Moor to be a very Canidia,* being often obliged to let her 
go out alone at night, under pretence of gathering herbs at 
full moon for her cosmetics, as if plucked at any other time, 
they would not possess the same virtues ; to procure deadly 
poisons Euphrosyne suspected, but in reality to join in the 
hideous orgies of Fetichism t with others of her race, or to hold 
interviews with such as consulted her imaginary art. It was 
not till all was given up, and Syra found herself alone, that 
on more coolly recollecting the incidents of the day, she 
remembered the pause in Fulvius's walk across the court, at 
the very spot where she had stood, and his hurried steps, after 
this, to the door. The conviction then Hashed on her mind, 
that she must have there dropped her kerchief, and that he 
must have picked it wp. That he should have passed it with 
indifference she believed impossible. She was confident, 
therefore, that it was now in his possession. After attempt- 
ing to speculate on the possible consequences of this mis- 
adventure, and coming to no satisfactory conclusion, she 

* A famous sorceress in Augustus's age. 
f The worship of interior Afi'ica. 

83 



determined to commit the matter entirely to God, and sought 
that repose which a good conscience was sure to render bahny 
and sweet. 

Fabiola, on parting with Agnes, retired to her apartment ; 
and after the usual services had been rendered to her by her 
other two servants and Euphrosyne, she dismissed them with 
a gentler manner than ever she had shown before. As soon 
as they had retired, she went to recline upon the couch where 
first we found her ; wdien, to her disgust, she discovered lying 
on it the style with which she had wounded Syra. She 
opened a chest, and threw it in with horror; nor did she ever 
again use any such weapon. 






Yolmnina., from a painting of Pompeii. Scrinium, from a picture in tbe Cemetery of St. Callistns. 

She took up the volume which she had last laid down, 
and wdiich had greatly amused her ; but it W' as quite insipid, 
and seemed most frivolous to her. She laid it down again, 
and gave free course to her thoughts on all that had hap- 
pened. It struck her first what a wonderful child her 
cousin Agnes was, — ^liow unselfish, how pure, how simple; 
how sensible, too, and even wise! She determined to be 
her protector, her elder sister in all things. She had 
observed, too, as well as her father, the frequent looks 
which Fulvius had fixed upon her; not, indeed, those 
libertine looks which she herself had often borne with scorn, 
but designing, cunning glances, such as she thought betrayed 
some scheme or art, of Avhich Agnes might become the 
victim. She resolved to frustrate it, wdiatever it might be, 
and arrived at exactly the oi^posite conclusion to her father's 



about him. She made up her mind to prevent Fulvius 
having any access to Agnes, at least at her house; and 
even blamed herself for having brought one so young into 
the strange company which often met at her father's table, 
especially as she now found that her motives for doing so 
had been decidedly selfish. It was nearly at the same 
moment that Fulvius, tossing on his couch, had come to 
the determination never again, if jiossible, to go inside 
Fabius's door, and to resist or elude every invitation from 
him. 

Fabiola had measured his character; had caught, with 
her penetrating eye, the affectation of his manner, and the 
cunning of his looks ; and could not help contrasting him with 
the frank and generous Sebastian. " What a noble fellow 
that Sebastian is ! " she said to herself. " How different from 
all the other youths that come here. ^N'ever a foolish word 
escapes his lips, never an unkind look darts from his bright 
and cheerful eye. How abstemious, as becomes a soldier, at 
the table; how modest, as befits a hero, about his own 
strength and bold actions in war, which others speak so 
much about. Oh, if he only felt towards me as others pretend 
to do — " She did not finish the sentence, but a deep melan- 
choly seemed to steal over her whole soul. 

Then Syra's conversation, and all that had resulted from 
it, passed again through her mind ; it was painful to her, yet 
she could not help dwelling on it ; and she felt as if that day 
were a crisis in her life. Her pride had been humbled by a 
slave, and her mind softened, she knew not how. Had her 
eyes been opened in that hour; and had she been able to 
look up above this world, she would have seen a soft 
cloud like incense, but tinged with a rich carnation, rising 
from the bed-side of a kneeling slave (prayer and willing 
sacrifice of life breathed upwards together), which, when 
it struck the crystal footstool of a mercy-seat in heaven. 






w. 



fell down again as a dew of gentlest grace uj)on her arid 
heart. 

She could not indeed see this ; yet it w^as no less true ; 
and wearied, at length she sought repose. But she too had 
a distressing dream. She saw a bright spot as in a delicious 
garden, richly illuminated by a light like noonday, but 
inexpressibly soft; while all around was dark. Beautiful 
flowers formed the sward, plants covered with richest bloom 
grew festooned from tree to tree, on each of which glowed 
golden fruit. In the midst of this space she saw the poor 
blind girl, with her look of happiness on her cheerful 
countenance, seated on the gi-ound ; Avhile on one side, 
Agnes, with her sweetest simple looks, and on the other, 
Syra, with her quiet patient smile, hung over her and 
caressed her. Fabiola felt an irresistible desire to be with 
them ; it seemed to her that they were enjoying some 
felicity which she had never known or witnessed; and she 
thought they even beckoned her to join them. She ran 
forward to do so, when to her horror she found a wide, and 
black, and deep ravine, at the bottom of which roared a 
torrent between herself and them. By degrees its waters 
rose, till they reached the upper margin of the dyke, and 
there flowed, though so deep, yet sparkling and brilliant, 
and most refreshing. Oh, for courage to plunge into this 
stream, through which alone the gorge could be crossed, 
and land in safety on the other side ! And still they 
beckoned, urging her on to try it. But as she was stand- 
ing on the brink, clasping her hands in despair, Calpurnius 
seemed to emerge from the dark air around, with a thick 
heavy curtain stretched out, on which Avere worked all 
sorts of monstrous and hideous chimeras, most curiously 
running into, and interwoven with, each other; and this 
dark veil grew and grew, till it shut out the beautiful 
vision from her sight. She felt disconsolate, till she seemed 



to see a bright genius (as she called him), in whose features 
she fancied she traced a spiritualized resemblance to Sebastian, 
and whom she had noticed standing sorrowful at a distance, 
now approach her, and, smiling on her, fan her fevered face 
with his gold and purple wing; when she lost her vision in a 
calm and refreshing sleep. 




Oar Saviour, from a representation found in the Catacombs. 



nn^_ 



w 




CHAPTER IX. 
MEETINGS. 

all the Roman hills, the most distinctly 
traceable on every side is undoubtedly the 
Palatine. Augustus having chosen it for 
his residence, successive emperors followed 
his example ; but gradually transformed his 
modest residence into a palace, which cov- 
ered the entire hill. ISTero, not satisfied 
with its dimensions, destroyed the neighborhood by 
tire, and then extended the imperial residence to 
the neighboring Esquiline; taking in the whole 
space now occupied between the two hills by the Coliseum. 
Vespasian threw down that "golden house," of which the 
magnificent vaults remain, covered with beautiful paintings ; 
and built the amphitheatre just mentioned, and other edifices, 
with its materials. The entrance to the palace was made, 
soon after this period, from the Via Sacra, or Saci'ed Way, 
close to the arch of Titus. After passing through a vestibule, 
the visitor found himself in a magnificent court, the plan of 
which can be distinctly traced. Turning from this, on the left 
side, he entered into an immense square space, arranged and 
consecrated to Adonis by Domitian, and planted with trees, 
shrubs, and flowers. 

Still keeping to the left, you would enter into sets of 
chambers, constructed by Alexander Severus in honor of his 



|,|]!l{j||]||i|||jj||||||lll|)|^^ 






















illl'i'liliiilliiiliili!!! 




mother Mammsea, whose name they bore. They looked out 

opposite to the Coelian hill, just at the angle of it, which 

abuts upon the later triumphal arch of Constantine, and the 

fountain called the Meta Sudans* Here was 

the apartment occupied by Sebastian as a 

tribune, or superior officer, of the imperial 

guard. It consisted of a few rooms, most 

modestly furnished, as became a soldier and 

a Christian. His household was limited to a 

couple of freedmen, and a venerable matron, Meta sMans, after a 

,. _- 11. bronze of Vespasian. 

who had been his nurse, and loved him as a 
child. They were Christians, as were all the men in his 
cohort ; i^artly by conversion, but chiefly by care in recruiting 
new soldiers. 

It was a few evenings after the scenes described in the 
last chapter, that Sebastian, a couple of hours after dark, 
ascended the steps of the vestibule just described, in company 
with another youth, of whom we have already spoken. Pan- 
cratius admired and loved Sebastian with the sort of affection 
that an ardent young officer may be supposed to bear towards 
an older and gallant soldier, who receives him into his friend- 
ship. But it was not as to a soldier of Caesar, but as to a 
champion of Christ, that the civilian boy looked up to the 
young tribune, whose generosity, noble-mindedness, and valor, 
were enshrouded in such a gentle, simple bearing, and were 
accompanied by such prudence and considerateness, as gave 
confidence and encouragement to all that dealt with him. 
And Sebastian loved Pancratius no less, on account of his 
single-hearted ardor, and the innocence and candor of his 
mind. But he well saw the dangers to which his youthful 
warmth and impetuosity might lead him ; and he encouraged 

* "The sweating goal." It was an obelisk of brick (which yet remains), 
cased with marble, from the top of which issued water, and flowed down like a 
sheet of glass, all round it, into a basin on the ground. 



him to keep close to himself, that he might guide, and per- 
haps sometimes restrain him. 

As they were entering the palace, that part of which 
Sebastian's cohort guarded, he said to his companion: "Every 
time that I enter here, it strikes me how kind an act of 
Divine Providence it was, to plant almost at the very gate of 
Caesar's palace, the arch which commemorates at once the 
downfall of the first great system that was antagonistic to 




M^^'^- 



I/^^.^ 



The ArchofTitns. 



Christianity, and the completion of the greatest prophecy of 
the Gospel, — the destruction of Jerusalem by the Eoman 
power.* I cannot but believe that another arch will one day 

* The trinmplial arch of Titus, on -which are represented the spoils of the 
Temple. 



^ 



arise to commemorate no less a victory, over the second 
enemy of our religion, the heathen Roman empire itself." 

"What! do you contemplate the overthrow of this vast 
empire, as the means of establishing Christianity? " 

" God forbid ! I would shed the last drop of my blood, as 
I shed my first, to maintain it. And depend upon it, when 
the empire is converted, it will not be by such gradual growth 
as we now witness, but by some means, so unhuman, so 
divine, as we shall never, in our most sanguine longings, fore- 
cast; but all will exclaim, 'This is the change of the right 
hand of the Most High ! '" 

" No doubt ; but your idea of a Christian triumphal arch 
supposes an earthly instrument ; where do you imagine this 
to lie ? " 

" Why, Pancratius, my thoughts, I own, turn towards the 
family of one of the Augusti, as showing a slight germ of 
better thoughts : I mean, Constantius Chlorus." 

"But, Sebastian, how many of even our learned and 
good men will say, nay, do say, if you speak thus to them, 
that similar hopes were entertained in the reigns of Alex- 
ander, Gordian, or Aurelian; yet ended in disappointment. 
Why, they ask, should we not expect the same results 
now?" 

" I know it too well, my dear Pancratius, and bitterly have 
I often deplored those dark views which damp our energies ; 
that lurking thought that vengeance is perpetual, and mercy 
temporary, that martyr's blood, and virgin's prayer have no 
power even to shorten times of visitation, and hasten hours 
of grace." 

By this time they had reached Sebastian's apartment, the 
principal room of which was lighted, and evidently prepared 
for some assembly. But opposite the door was a window 
open to the ground, and leading to a terrace that ran along 
that side of the building. The night looked so bright through 



^ 



it, that they both instinctively walked across the room, and 
stood upon the terrace. A lovely and splendid view presented 
itself to them. The moon was high in the heavens, swim- 
ming in them, as an Italian moon does ; a round, full globe, 
not a flat surface, bathed all round in its own refulgent atmos- 
phere. It dimmed, indeed, the stars near itself; but they 
seemed to have retired, in thicker and more brilliant clusters, 
into the distant corners of the azure sky. It was just such 
an evening as, years after, Monica and A.ugustine enjoyed 
from a window at Ostia, as they discoursed of heavenly 
things. 

It is true that, below and around, all was beautiful and 
grand. The Coliseum, or Flavian amphitheatre, rose at one 
side, in all its completeness ; and the gentle murmur of the 
fountain, while its waters glistened in a silvery column, like 
the refluent sea-wave gliding down a slanting rock, came 
soothingly on the ear. On the other side, the lofty building 
called the Septizonium of Severus, in front, towering above the 
Coelian, the sumptuous baths of Caracalla, reflected from their 
marble walls and stately pillars the radiance of the autumn 
moon. But all these massive monuments of earthly glory rose 
unheeded before the two Christian youths, as they stood silent ; 
the elder with his right arm round his youthful companion's 
neck, and resting on his shoulder. After a long pause, he took 
up the thread of his last discourse, and said, in a softer tone : 
" I was going to show you, when we stepped out here, the very 
spot just below our feet, where I have often fancied the 
triumphal arch, to which I have alluded, would stand.* But 
who can think of such paltry things below, with the splendid 
vault above us, lighted up so brilliantly, as if on purpose to 
draw upwards our eyes and hearts?" 

" True, Sebastian ; and I have sometimes thought, that, if 

* The arch of Constantine stands exactly under the spot where this scene is 
described. 

94 





'Hark!" said Paneratius, "these are the trumpet-notes that 
sunanion us." 



the under-side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, 
however wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and 
bright, what must that upper-side be, down upon whicli the 
eye of boundless Glory deigns to glance ! I imagine it to be 
like a richly-embroidered veil, through the texture of which a 
few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass ; and these 
only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper 
surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the 
just made perfect ! " 

"A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It 
makes the veil, between us laboring here and the triumphal 
church above, thin and easily to be passed." 

" And pardon me, Sebastian," said the youth, with the same 
look up to his friend, as a few evenings before had met his 
mother's inspired gaze, " pardon me if, while you wisely 
speculate upon a future arch to record the triumph of Chris- 
tianity, I see already before me, built and open, the arch 
through which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church 
speedily to the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of 
bliss." 

" Where, my dear boy, where do you mean ? " 

Pancratius pointed steadily with his hand towards the left, 
and said : " There, my noble Sebastian ; any of those open 
arches of the Flavian amphitheatre, which lead to its arena ; 
over which, not denser than the outstretched canvas which 
shades our spectators, is that veil of which you spoke just now. 
But hark ! " 

" That was a lion's roar from beneath the Coelian ! " 
exclaimed Sebastian, surprised. "Wild beasts must have 
arrived at the vivarium* of the amphitheatre; for I know 
there were none there yesterday." 

"Yes, hark!" continued Pancratius, not noticing the 
interruption. "These are the trumpet-notes that summon 
* The place where live beasts were kept for the shows. 

97 



Tip 



w 



us; that is the music that must accompany us to our 
triumph ! " 

Both paused for a time, when Pancratius again broke the 
silence, saying : " This puts me in mind of a matter on which 
I want to take your advice, my faithful counsellor; will your 
company be soon arriving?" 

" ISTot immediately ; and they will drop in one by one ; 
till they assemble, come into my chamber, where none will 
interrupt us." 

They walked along the terrace, and entered the last room 
of the suite. It was at the corner of the hill, exactly opposite 
the fountain ; and was lighted only by the rays of the moon, 
streaming through the open window on that side. The 
soldier stood near this, and Pancratius sat upon his small 
military couch. 

"What is this great affair, Pancratius," said the officer, 
smiling, "upon which you wish to have my sage opinion? " 

" Quite a trifle, I dare say," replied the youth, bashfully, 
"for a bold and generous man like you ; but an important one 
to an unskilful and weak boy like me." 

" A good and virtuous one, I doubt not ; do let me hear it ; 
and I promise you every assistance." 

"Well, then, Sebastian — now don't think me foolish," 
proceeded Pancratius, hesitating and blushing at every word. 
" You are aware I have a quantity of useless plate at home — 
mere lumber, you know, in our plain way of living ; and my 
dear mother, for any thing I can say, won't wear the lots of 
old-fashioned trinkets, which are lying locked up, and of no 
use to any body. I have no one to whom all this should 
descend. I am, and shall be, the last of my race. Tou have 
often told me, who in that case are a Christian's natural heirs, 
— the widow and the fatherless, the helpless and the indigent. 
Why should these wait my death, to have what by reversion 
is theirs? And if a persecution is coming, why run the risk 



w 



of confiscation seizing them, or of plundering lictors stealing 
them, whenever our lives are wanted, to the utter loss of our 
rightful heirs? " 

"Pancratius," said Sebastian, "I have listened without 
offering a remark to your noble suggestion. I wished you to 
have all the merit of uttering it yourself. Now, just tell me, 
what makes you doubt or hesitate about what I know you 
wish to do?" 

"Why, to tell the truth, I feared it might be highly 
presumptuous and impertinent in one of my age to offer to 
do what people would be sure to imagine was something 
grand or generous ; while I assure you, dear Sebastian, it is 
no such thing. For I shall not miss these things a bit ; they 
are of no value to me whatever. But they will be to the poor, 
especially in the hard times coming." 
" Of course Lucina consents?" 

" Oh, no fear about that ! I would not touch a grain of 
gold-dust without her even wishing it. But why I require 
your assistance is principally this. I should never be able to 
stand its being known that I presumed to do any thing con- 
sidered out of the way, especially in a boy. You understand 
me ? So I want you, and beg of you, to get the distribution 
made at some other house ; and as from a— say from one who 
needs much the prayers of the faithful, especially the poor, and 
desires to remain unknown." 

" I will serve you with delight, my good and truly noble 
boy ! Hush ! did you not hear the Lady Fabiola's name just 
mentioned ? There again, and with an epithet expressive of 
no good will." 

Pancratius approached the window ; two voices were con- 
versing together so close under them that the cornice between 
prevented their seeing the speakers, evidently a woman and a 
man. After a few minutes they walked out into the moon- 
light, almost as bright as day. 



■n 



" I know that Moorish woman," said Sebastian ; " it is 
Fabiola's black slave, Afra." 

"And the man," added Pancratius, "is my late school- 
fellow, Corvinus." 

They considered it their duty to catch, if possible, the 
thread of what seemed a plot; but, as the speakers walked 
up and down, they could only make out a sentence here and 
there. We will not, however, confine ourselves to these parts, 
but give the entire dialogue. Only, a word first about the 
interlocutors. 

Of the slave we know enough for the present. Corvinus 
was son, as we have said, to Tertullus, originally prefect of 
the Prgetorium. This office, unknown in the republic, and of 
imperial creation, had, from the reign of Tiberius, gradually 
absorbed almost all civil as well as military power ; and he 
who held it often discharged the duties of chief criminal judge 
in Rome. It required no little strength of nerve to occupy 
this post to the satisfaction of despotic and unsparing masters. 
To sit all day in a tribunal, surrounded with hideous imple- 
ments of torture, unuioved by the moans or the shrieks of old 
men, youths, or women, on whom they were tried ; to direct a 
cool interrogatory to one stretched upon the rack, and quiver- 
ing in agony on one side, wdiile the last sentence of beating to 
death with bullet-laden scourges was being executed on the 
other ; to sleep calmly after such scenes, and rise with appe- 
tite for their repetition, was not an occupation to which every 
member of the bar could be supposed to aspire. Tertullus 
had been brought from Sicily to fill the office, not because he 
was a cruel, but because he was a cold-hearted, man, not 
susceptible of pity or partiality. His tribunal, however, was 
Corvinus' s early school; he could sit, while quite a boy, for 
hours at his father's feet, thoroughly enjoying the cruel spec- 
tacles before him, and angry when any one got off. He grew 
up sottish, coarse, and brutal ; and not yet arrived at man's 






^ 



estate, his bloated and freckled countenance and blear eyes, 
one of whicli was half closed, announced him to be already a 
dissolute and dissipated character. Without taste for any 
thing refined, or ability for any learning, he united in himself 
a certain amount of animal courage and strength, and a con- 
siderable measure of low cunning. He had never experienced 
in himself a generous feeling, and he had never curbed an evil 
passion. No one had ever offended him, whom he did not 
hate, and pursue with vengeance. Two, above all, he had 
sworn never to forgive — the school-master who had often chas- 
tised him for his sulky idleness, and the school-fellow who had 
blessed him for his brutal contumely. Justice and mercy, 
good and evil done to him, were equally odious to him. 

Tertullus had no fortune to give him, and he seemed to 
have little genius to make one. To become possessed of one, 
however, was all-important to his mind; for wealth, as the 
means of gratifying his desires, was synonymous with him to 
supreme felicity. A rich heiress, or rather her dower, seemed 
the simplest object at which to aim. Too awkward, shy, and 
stupid to make himself a way in society, he sought other 
means, more kindred to his mind, for the attainment of- his 
ambitious or avaricious desires. What these means were, his 
conversation with the black slave will best explain. 

"I have come to meet you at the Meta Sudans again, for 
the fourth time, at this inconvenient hour. What news have 
you for me? " 

"None, except that after to-morrow my mistress starts 
for her villa at Cajeta,* and of course I go with her. I 
shall want more money to carry on my operations in your 
favor." 

" More still ? You have had all I have received from my 
father for months." 

" Why, do you know what Fabiola is ? " 

* Gaeta. 



c; 



s 



w 



"Yes, to be sure, the richest match in Rome." 

"The haughty and cold-hearted Fabiola is not so easily 
to be won.'' 

"But yet you promised me that your charms and potions 
would secure me her acceptance, or at any rate her fortune. 
What expense can these things cause?" 

"Yery great indeed. The most precious ingredients are 
requisite, and must be paid for. And do you think I will go 




The Appiau Way, as it was. 

out at such an hour as this amidst the tombs of the Appian 
way, to gather my simples, without being properly rewarded ? 
But how do you mean to second my efforts ? I have told you 
this would hasten their success." 

" And how can I ? You know I am not cut out by nature, 
or fitted by accomplishments, to make much impression on 
any one's affections. I would rather trust to the power of 
your black art." 

"Then let me give you one piece of advice; if you 
have no grace or gift by which you can gain Fabiola's 
heart " 



"Fortune, you mean." 

"They cannot be separated; — depend upon it, there is one 
thing wMch you may bring with you that is irresistible." 

"What is that?'' 

"Gold." 

" And where am I to get it? it is that I seek." 

The black slave smiled maliciously, and said : 

"Why cannot you get it as Fulvius does?" 

" How does he get it? " 

"By blood!" 

" How do you know it ? " 

" I have made acquaintance with an old attendant that 
he has, who, if not as dark as I am in skin, fully makes up 
for it in his heart. His language and mine are sufficiently 
allied for us to be able to converse. He has asked me many 
questions about poisons, and pretended he would purchase my 
liberty, and take me back home as his wife ; but I have some- 
thing better than that in prospect, I trust. However, I got all 
that I wanted out from him." 

" And what was that? " 

"Why, that Fulvius had discovered a great conspiracy 
against Dioclesian ; and from the wink of the old man's awful 
eye, I understood he had hatched it first ; and he has been 
sent with strong recommendations to Rome to be employed in 
the same line." 

" But I have no ability either to make or to discover con- 
spiracies, though I may have to punish them." 

" One way, however, is easy." 

"What is that?" 

" In my country there are large birds, which you may 
attempt in vain to run down with the fleetest horses; but 
which, if you look about for them quietly, are the first to 
betray themselves, for they only hide their heads." 

" What do you wish to represent by this ? " 



-^:i 



" The Clii'istians. Is there not going to be a persecution 
of them soon ? " 

"Yes, and a most fierce one ; such as has never been before." 

" Then follow my advice. Do not tire yourself with hunt- 
ing them down, and catching, after all, but mean prey ; keep 
your eyes open and look about for one or two good fat ones, 
half trying to conceal themselves ; pounce upon them, get a 
good share of their confiscation, and come with one good 
handful to get two in return." 

"Thank you, thank you; I understand you. Tou are not 
fond of these Christians, then ? " 

"Fond of them? I hate the entire race. The spirits 
which I worship are the deadly enemies of their very name." 
And she grinned horrible a ghastly smile as she proceeded : 
" I suspect one of my fellow-servants is one. Oh, how I 
detest her! " 

" What makes you think it ? " • 

" In the first place, she would not tell a lie for anything, 
and gets us all into dreadful scrapes by her absurd truth- 
fulness." 

" Good ! what next ? " 

" Then she cares not for money or gifts ; and so prevents 
our having them offered." 

" Better ! " 

" And moreover she is — " the last word died in the ear of 
Corvinus, who replied : 

"Well, indeed, I have to-day been out of the gate to meet 
a caravan of your countryfolk coming in ; but you beat them 
all!" 

" Indeed! " exclaimed Afra with delight, "who were they ? " 

" Simply Africans,"* replied Corvinus, with a laugh : 
"lions, panthers, leopards." 

* The generic name for the wild beasts of that continent, as opposed to bears 
and others from the north. 



% 



" Wretch ! do you insult me thus ? " 

" Come, come, be pacified. They are brought expressly to 
rid you of your hateful Christians. Let us part friends. Here 
is your money. But let it be the last ; and let me know when 
the philtres begin to work. I will not forget your hint about 
Christian money. It is quite to my taste." 

As he departed by the Sacred Way, she pretended to go 
along the Caringe, the street between the Palatine and the 
Coelian mounts; then turned back, and looking after him, 
exclaimed: "Fool! to think that I am going to try experi- 
ments for you on a person of Fabiola's character! " 

She followed him at a distance ; but as Sebastian, to his 
amazement, thought, turned into the vestibule of the palace. 
He determined at once to put Fabiola on her guard against 
this new plot ; but this could not be done till her return from 
the country. 




Emblematic representation of Paradise, found in the Catacombs. 




CHAPTER X. 
OTHER MEETINGS. 

► HEN the two youths returned to the room 
by which they had entered the apart- 
ment, they found the expected company 
assembled. A frugal repast was laid 
upon the table, principally as a blind to 
any intruder who might happen unexpect- 
edly to enter. The assembly was large and 
varied, containing clergy and laity, men and 
women. The puri30se of the meeting was to con- 
cert proper measures, in consequence of something 
which had lately occurred in the palace. This we must 
briefly exj)lain. 

Sebastian, enjoying the unbounded confidence of the em- 
peror, employed all his influence in propagating the Christian 
faith within the palace. Numerous conversions had gradually 
been made ; but shortly before this period there had been a 
wholesale one effected, the particulars of which are recorded 
in the genuine Acts of this glorious soldier. In virtue of for- 
mer laws, many Christians were seized and brought to trial, 
which often ended in death. Two brothers, Marcus and Mar- 
cellianus, had been so accused, and were expecting execution ; 
when their friends, admitted to see them, implored them with 
tears to save their lives by apostasy. They seemed to waver ; 
they promised to deliberate. Sebastian heard of this, and 
rushed to save them. He was too well known to be refused 



admittance, and lie entered into their gloomy prison like an 
angel of light. It consisted of a strong room in the house of 
the magistrate to whose care they had been intrusted. The 
place of confinement was generally left to that officer; and 
here Tranquillinus, the father of the two youths, had obtained 
a respite for them of thirty days to try to shake their con- 
stancy; and, to second his efforts, 
Nicostratus, the magistrate, had 
placed them in custody in his own 
house. Sebastian's was a bold and 
perilous office. Besides the two 
Christian captives, there were gath- 
ered in the place sixteen heathen 
prisoners; there were the parents 
of the unfortunate youths weeping 
over them, and caressing them, to 
allure them from their threatened 
doom ; there was the gaoler, Clau- 
dius, and there was the magistrate, 

NiCOStratUS, with his wife, Zoe, Samt SebasUan, from the "Roma Sotteranea" 

drawn thither by the compassion- 
ate wish of seeing the youths snatched from their fate. Could 
Sebastian hope, that of this crowd not one would be found, 
whom a sense of official duty, or a hope of pardon, or hatred 
of Christianity, might impel to betray him, if he avowed him- 
self a Christian ? And did he not know that such a betrayal 
involved his death ? 

He knew it well ; but Avhat cared he ? If three victims 
would thus be offered to God instead of two, so much the 
better; all that he dreaded was, that there should be none. 
The room was a banqueting-hall but seldom opened in the 
day, and consequently requiring very little light ; what it had, 
entered only, as in the Pantheon, by an opening in the roof; 
and Sebastian, anxious to be seen by all, stood in the ray which 




^ 



now darted through it, strong and brilliant where it beat, but 
leaving the rest of the aj)artment almost dark. It broke 
against the gold and jewels of his rich tribune's armor, and, 
as he moved, scattered itself in sparks of brilliant hues into 
the darkest recesses of that gloom; while it beamed with 
serene steadiness upon his uncovered head, and displayed his 
noble features, softened by an emotion of tender grief, as he 
looked upon the two vacillating confessors. It was some 

moments before he could give 
vent in words to the violence 
of his grief, till at length it 
broke forth in impassioned 
tones. 

" Holy and venerable 
brothers," he exclaimed, 
"who have borne witness 
to Christ; who are impris- 
oned for Him; whose limbs 
are marked by chains worn 
for His sake; who have 
tasted torments with Him, 
— I ought to fall at your 
feet and do you homage, 
and ask your prayers ; instead of standing before you as your 
exhorter, still less as your reprover. Can this be true which 
I have heard, that while angels were jDutting the last flower 
to your crowns, you have bid them pause, and even thought 
of telling them to unweave them, and scatter their blossoms to 
the Avinds ? Can I believe that you who have already your 
feet on the threshold of Paradise, are thinking of drawing 
them back, to tread once more the valley of exile and of 
tears ? " 

The two youths hung down their heads and wept in 
humble confession of their weakness. Sebastian proceeded : 




Military Tribunes, after a bas-relief od Trajan's Column. 



strn 



" You cannot meet the eye of a poor soldier like me, the 
least of Christ's servants : how then will you stand the angry 
glance of the Lord whom you are about to deny before men 
(but cannot in your hearts deny), on that terrible day, when 
He, in return, will deny you before His angels? When, 
instead of standing manfully before Him, like good and faith- 
ful servants, as to-morrow ye might have done, you shall have 
to come into His presence after having crawled through a few 
more years of infamy, disowned by the Church, despised by 
its enemies, and, what is worse, gnawed by an undying worm, 
and victims of a sleepless remorse? " 

" Cease ; oh, in pity cease, young man, whoever thou art," 
exclaimed Tranquillinus, the father of the youths. " Speak 
not thus severely to my sons ; it was, I assure thee, to their 
mother's tears and to my entreaties that they had begun to 
yield, and not to the tortures which they have endured with 
such fortitude. Why should they leave their wretched parents 
to misery and sorrow? does thy religion command this, and 
dost thou call it holy ? " 

"Wait in patience, my good old man," said Sebastian, 
with the kindest look and accent, " and let me speak first 
with thy sons. They know what I mean, which thou canst 
not yet; but with God's grace thou too shalt soon. Your 
father, indeed, is right in saying, that for his sake and your 
mother's jon have been deliberating whether you should not 
prefer them to Him who told you, ' He that loveth father or 
mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' You cannot 
hope to purchase for these your aged parents, eternal life by 
your own loss of it. Will you make them Christians by 
abandoning Christianity? will you make them soldiers of the 
Cross by deserting its standard ? will you teach them that its 
doctrines are more precious than life, by preferring life to 
them ? Do you want to gain for them, not the mortal life of 
the perishable body, but the eternal life of the soul? then 



c=£ 



hasten yourselves to its acquisition ; throw down at the feet 
of your Saviour the crowns you will receive, and entreat for 
your parents' salvation." 

" Enough, enough, Sebastian, we are resolved," cried out 
together both the brothers. 

"Claudius," said one, "put on me again the chains you 
have taken off." 

" Nicostratus," added the other, " give orders for the sen- 
tence to be carried out." 

Yet neither Claudius nor Nicostratus moved. 

"Farewell, dear father; adieu, dearest mother," they in 
turn said, embracing their parents. 

" JN'o," replied the father, "we part no more. Nicostratus, 
go tell Chromatins that I am from this moment a Christian 
with my sons ; I will die with them for a religion which can 
make heroes thus of boys." "And I," continued the mother, 
" will not be sej^arated from my husband and children." 

The scene which followed baffles description. All were 
moved; all wept; the prisoners joined in the tumult of these 
new affections; and Sebastian saw himself surrounded by a 
group of men and women smitten by grace, softened by its 
influences, and subdued by its i^ower ; yet all was lost if one 
remained behind. He saw the danger, not to himself, but to 
the Church, if a sudden discovery were made, and to those 
souls fluttering upon the confines of life. Some hung upon 
his arms ; some clasped his knees ; some kissed his feet, as 
though he had been a spirit of peace, such as visited Peter in 
his dungeon at Jerusalem. 

Two alone had expressed no thought. Nicostratus was 
indeed moved, but by no means conquered. His feelings 
were agitated, but his convictions unshaken. His wife, Zoe, 
knelt before Sebastian with a beseeching look and outstretched 
arms, but she spoke not a word. 

" Come, Sebastian," said the keeper of the records, for 



such was Nicostratus's office; "it is time for thee to depart. 
I cannot but admire the sincerity of belief, and the gener- 
osity of heart, which can make thee act as thou hast 
done, and which impel these young men to death ; but 
my duty is imperative, and must overweigh my private 
feelings." 

" And dost not thou believe with the rest ?" 

" No, Sebastian, I yield not so easily; I must have stronger 
evidences than even thy virtue." 

"Oh, speak to him then, thou!" said Sebastian to 
Zoe; "speak, faithful wife; speak to thy husband's heart; 
for I am mistaken indeed, if those looks of thine tell me not 
that tliou at least believest." 

Zoe covered her face with her hands, and burst into a i:)as- 
sion of tears. 

" Thou hast touched her to the quick, Sebastian," said her 
husband ; " knowest thou not that she is dumb ? " 

" I knew it not, noble Nicostratus ; for when last I saw 
her in Asia she could speak." 

"For six years," replied the other, with a faltering voice, 
" her once eloquent tongue has been paralyzed, and she has 
not uttered a single word." 

Sebastian was silent for a moment; then suddenly he 
threw out his arms, and stretched them forth, as the Chris- 
tians always did in prayer, and raised his eyes to heaven ; 
then burst forth in these words : 

"0 God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning 
of this work is Thine ; let its accomphshment be Thine alone. 
Put forth Thy power, for it is needed ; intrust it for once to 
the weakest and poorest of instruments. Let me, though 
most unworthy, so wield the sword of Thy victorious Cross, as 
that the spirits of darkness may fly before it, and Thy salva- 
tion may embrace us all ! Zoe, look up once more to me." 

All were hushed in silence, when Sebastian, after a 



moment's silent prayer, with his right hand made over her 
mouth the sign of the cross, saying: "Zoe, speak; dost thou 
believe? " 

"I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ," she replied, in a 
clear and firm voice, and fell upon Sebastian's feet. 

It was almost a shriek that Nicostratus uttered, as he 
threw himself on his knees, and bathed Sebastian's right 
hand with tears. 

The victory was complete. Every one was gained; and 
immediate steps were taken to prevent discovery. The per- 
son responsible for the prisoners could take them where he 
wished ; and Nicostratus transferred them all, with Tranquil- 
linus and his wife, to the full liberty of his house. Sebastian 
lost no time in j)utting them under the care of the holy priest 
Polycaip, of the title of St. Pastor. It was a case so peculiar, 
and requiring such concealment, and the times were so threat- 
ening, and all new irritations had so nmch to be avoided, that 
the instruction was hurried, and continued night and day : so 
that baptism was quickly administered. 

The new Christian flock was encouraged and consoled by 
a fresh wonder. Tranquillinus, who was suffering severely 
from the gout, was restored to instant and complete health 
by baptism. Chromatins was the prefect of the city, to whom 
Nicostratus was liable for his prisoners ; and this officer 
could not long conceal from him what had haiDpened. It w^as 
indeed a matter of life or death to them all ; but, strength- 
ened now by faith, they were prepared for either. Chroma- 
tins was a man of upright character, and not fond of persecu- 
tion ; and listened with interest to the account of what had 
occurred. But when he heard of Tranquillinus' s cure, he was 
greatly struck. He was himself a victim to the same disease, 
and suffered agonies of pain. " If," he said, " what you relate 
be true, and if I can have personal experience of this healing 
power, I certainly will not resist its evidence." 



w 



m 



Sebastian was sent for. To have administered baptism 
without faith preceding, as an experiment of its healing vir- 
tue, would have been a superstition. Sebastian took another 
course, which will be later described, and Chromatins com- 
pletely recovered. He received baptism soon after, with his 
son Tibertius. 

It was clearly impossible for him to continue in his office, 
and he had accordingly resigned it to the emperor. Tertullus, 
the father of the hopeful Corvinus, and prefect of the Preeto- 
rium, had been named his successor; so the reader will per- 
ceive that the events just related from the Acts of St. Sebas- 
tian, had occurred a little before our narrative begins ; for in 
an early chapter we spoke of Corvinus's father as already 
prefect of the city. 

Let us now come down again to the evening in which 
Sebastian and Pancratius met most of the persons above enu- 
merated in the officer's chamber. Many of them resided in, 
or about, the palace ; and besides them were present Castulus, 
who held a high situation at court,* and his wife Irene. Sev- 
eral previous meetings had been held, to decide upon some 
plan for securing the completer instruction of the converts, 
and for withdrawing from observation so many persons, whose 
change of life and retirement from office would excite wonder 
and inquiry. Sebastian had obtained permission from the 
emperor for Chromatins to retire to a country-house in Cam- 
pania; and it had been aiTanged that a considerable number 
of the neophytes should join him there, and, forming one 
household, should go on with religious instruction, and unite 
in common offices of piety. The season was come when every 
body retired to the country, and the emperor himself was 
going to the coast of Naples, and thence would take a journey 
to southern Italy. It was therefore a favorable moment for 
carrying out the preconcerted plan. Indeed the Pope, we are 

* It is not mentioned what it precisely was. 



w 



told, on the Sunday following this conversion, celebrated the 
divine mysteries in the house of Nieostratus, and proposed 
this withdrawal fi'om the city. 

At this meeting all details were arranged ; different par- 
ties were to start, in the course of the following days, by vari- 
ous roads — some direct by the Appian, some along the Latin, 
others round by Tibur and a mountain road, through Arpi- 
num ; but all were to meet at the villa, not far from Capua. 




The Roman Forum. 



Through the whole discussion of these somewhat tedious 
arrangements, Torquatus, one of the former prisoners, con- 
verted by Sebastian's visit, showed himself forward, impa- 
tient, and impetuous. He found fault with every plan, seemed 
discontented with the directions given him, spoke almost con- 
temptuously of this flight from danger, as he called it ; and 
boasted that, for his part, he was ready to go into the Forum 
on the morrow, and overthrow any altar, or confront any 
judge, as a Christian. Every thing was said and done to 
soothe, and even to cool him ; and it was felt to be most 



w 



important that he should be taken with the rest into 
the country. He insisted, however, upon going his own way. 

Only one more point remained to be decided : it was, who 
should head the little colony, and direct its operations. Here 
was renewed a contest of love between the holy priest Poly- 
carp and Sebastian; each wishing to remain in Eome, and 
have the first chance . of martyrdom. But now the differ- 
ence was cut short by a letter brought in, from the Pope, 
addressed to his "Beloved son Poly carp, priest of th.e title 
of St. Pastor," in which he commanded him to accompany 
the converts, and leave Sebastian to the arduous duty of 
encouraging confessors, and protecting Christians in Rome. 
To hear was to obey ; and the meeting broke up with a prayer 
of thanksgiving. 

Sebastian, after bidding affectionate farewell to his friends, 
insisted upon accompanying Pancratius home. As they were 
leaving the room, the latter remarked, " Sebastian, I do not 
like that Torquatus. I fear he will give us trouble." 

" To tell the truth," answered the soldier, " I would rather 
he were different ; but we must remember that he is a neo- 
phyte, and will improve in time, and by grace." 

As they passed into the entrance-court of the palace, they 
heard a Babel of uncouth sounds, with coarse laughter and 
occasional yells, proceeding from the adjoining yard, in which 
were the quarters of the Mauritanian archers. A fire seemed 
to be blazing in the midst of it, for the smoke and sparks rose 
above the surrounding porticoes. 

Sebastian accosted the sentinel in the court where they 
were, and asked : " Friend, what is going on there among our 
neighbors? " 

" The black slave," he replied, " who is their priestess, and 
who is betrothed to their captain, if she can purchase her 
freedom, has come in for some midnight rites, and this horrid 
turmoil takes place every time she comes." 



" Indeed ! " said Pancratius, " and can you tell me what is 
the religion these Africans follow ? " 

"I do not know, sir," replied the legionary, " unless they 
be what are called Christians." 

"What makes you think so? " 

" Why, I have heard that the Christians meet by night, 
and sing detestable songs, and commit all sorts of crimes; 
and cook and eat the flesh of a child murdered for the pur- 
pose* — just what might seem to be going on here." 

"Good night, comrade," said Sebastian; and then 
exclaimed, as they were issuing from the vestibule, " Is it not 
strange, Pancratius, that, in spite of all our efforts, we who 
are conscious that we worship only the One living God in 
spirit and truth, who know what care we take to keep our- 
selves undefiled by sin, and who would die rather than speak 
an unclean word, should yet, after 300 years, be confounded 
by the people with the followers of the most degraded super- 
stitions, and have our worship ranked with the very idolatry, 
which above all things we abhor ? ' How long, Lord ! how 
long? ' " 

" So long," said Pancratius, pausing on the steps outside 
the vestibule, and looking at the now declining moon, " so 
long as we shall continue to walk in this pale light, and until 
the Sun of Justice shall rise upon our country in His beauty, 
and enrich it with His splendor. Sebastian, tell me, whence 
do you best like to see the sun rise? " 

"The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen," replied the 
soldier, as if humoring his companion's fanciful question, 
"was from the top of the Latial mountain, t by the temple of 
Jupiter. The sun rose behind the mountain, and projected 
its huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain, and far upon 
the sea ; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and withdrew ; 

* These were the popular ideas of Christian worship, 
f Now Monte Oavo, above Albano. 



c--^ 



-^:i 



and every moment some new object caught the hght, first the 
galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its 
dancing waves ; and by degrees one white edifice after the 
other sparkled in the fresh beams, till at last majestic Eome 
itself, with its toAvering pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of 
day. It was a glorious sight, indeed ; such as could not have 
been witnessed or imagined by those below." 

" Just what I should have expected, Sebastian," observed 
Pancratius; "and so it will be when that more brilliant sun 
rises fully upon this benighted country. How beautiful will 
it then be to behold the shades retiring, and each moment 
one and another of the charms, as yet concealed, of our holy 
faith and worship starting into light, till the imperial city 
itself shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will they 
who live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value 
them ? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around 
them, and hold their hands before their eyes, to shade them 
from the sudden glare? I know not, dear Sebastian, but I 
hope that you and I will look down upon that grand spec- 
tacle, from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from a 
mountain higher than Jupiter's, be he Alban or be he Olym- 
pian, — dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the 
Lamb, from whose feet flow the streams of life." * 

They continued their walk in silence through the brill- 
iantly-lighted streets ; t and when they had reached Lucina's 
house, and had affectionately bid one another good-night, 
Pancratius seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said : 

" Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I 
should much like to have explained." 

* " Vidi supra montem Agnum stantem, de sub cujus pede fons vivus ema- 
Bat." — Office of St. Clemejit. 

f Ammianus Marcellinus tells us that, at the decline of the empire, the 
streets at night were lighted so as to rival day. " Et ha?c confidenter agebat (Gal- 
lus) ubi pernoctantium luminum claritudo dierum solet iinitari fulgorem." Lib. 
xiv. 0. 1. 



"What was it?'' 

" When you were contending with Polycarp, about going 
into Campania, or remaining in Rome, you promised that if 
you stayed you would be most cautious, and not expose your- 
self to unnecessary risks ; then you added, that there was one 
purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain you ; 
but that when that was accomplished, you would find it diffi- 
cult to check your longing ardor to give your life for Christ." 

"And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know 
this foolish thought of mine ? " 

" Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be 
the object high enough to check in you the aspiration, after 
Avhat I know you consider to be the very highest of a Chris- 
tian's aim." 

" I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to 
tell you now. But you shall know it sometime." 

" Do you promise me ? " 

" Yes, most solemnly. God bless you ! " 




A Lamb with a Milk-can, found in the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellin. 




CHAPTER XI. 

A TALK WITH THE READER. 

^E will take advantage of the holiday 
^Yhich Eome is enjoying, sending out 
its inhabitants to the neighboring hills, 
or to the whole line of sea-coast from 
Genoa to Pajstinn, for amusement on 
land and w^ater : and, in a merely didac- 
tic way, endeavor to communicate to our 
reader some information, which may 
throw light on what w^e have already w^ritten, and prepare 
him for what will follow. 

From the very compressed form in which the early history 
of the Church is generally studied, and from the unchronologi- 
cal arrangement of the saints' biographies, as we usually read 
them, we may easily be led to an erroneous idea of the state 
of our first Christian ancestors. This may happen in two 
different ways. 

We may come to imagine, that during the first three cen- 
turies the Church was suffering unrespited, under active 
persecution; that the faithful worshipped in fear and 
trembling, and almost lived in the catacombs; that bare 
existence, with scarcely an opportunity for outward develop- 
ment or inward organization, none for splendor, was all that 
religion could enjoy ; that, in fine, it was a period of conflict 
and of tribulation, without an interval of peace or consolation. 
On the other hand, w^e may suppose, that those three centuries 



2 



were divided into epochs by ten distinct persecutions, some of 
longer and some of shorter duration, but definitely separated 
from one another by breathing times of complete rest. 

Either of these views is erroneous ; and we desire to state 
more accurately the real condition of the Christian Church, 
under the various circumstances of that most pregnant portion 
of her history. 

When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, 
it may be said never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her 
final pacification under Constantino. An edict of persecution 
once issued by an emperor was seldom recalled ; and though 
the rigor of its enforcement might gradually relax or cease, 
through the accession of a milder ruler, still it never became 
completely a dead letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the 
hands of a cruel or bigoted governor of a city or province. 
Hence, in the intervals between the greater general persecu- 
tions, ordered by a new decree, we find many martyrs, who 
owed their crowns either to popular fury, or to the hatred of 
Christianity in local rulers. Hence also we read of a bitter 
persecution being carried on in one part of the empire, while 
other portions enjoyed complete peace. 

Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecu- 
tion will illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church 
with the State, better than mere description ; and the more 
learned reader can pass over this digression, or must have the 
patience to hear repeated, what he is so familiar with, that it 
will seem commonplace. 

Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors; on 
the contrary, he was habitually just and merciful. Yet, 
though he published no new edicts against the Christians, 
many noble martyrs — amongst them St. Ignatius, bishop of 
Antioch, at Rome, and St. Simeon at Jerusalem- — glorified 
their Lord in his reign. Indeed, when Pliny the younger 
consulted him on the manner in which he should deal with 



13 



w 



Christians, who might be brought before him as governor of 
Bithynia, the emperor gave him a rule which exhibits the 
lowest standard of justice: that they were not to be sought 
out ; but if accused, they were to be punished, Adrian, who 




St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch. 

issued no decree of persecution, gave a similar reply to a 
similar question from Serenius Granianus, pro-consul of Asia. 
And under him, too, and even by his own orders, cruel martyr- 
dom was suffered by the intrepid Symphorosa and her seven 
sons at Tibur, or Tivoli. A beautiful inscription found in the 
catacombs mentions Marius, a young officer, who shed his 



w 



blood for Christ under this emperor.* Indeed, St. Justin 
Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, informs us that 
he owed his conversion to the constancy of the martyrs under 
this emperor. 

In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus 
had published his persecuting edicts, many Christians had 
suffered torments and death. Such were the celebrated mar- 
tyrs of Scillita in Africa, and SS. Perpetua and Felicitas, with 
their companions; the Acts of whose martyrdom, containing 
the diary of the first noble lady, twenty years of age, brought 
down by herself to the eve of her death, form one of the most 
touching, and exquisitely beautiful, documents preserved to 
us from the ancient Church. 

From these historical facts it will be evident, that while 
there was from time to time a more active, severe, and general 
persecution of the Christian name all through the empire, 
there were partial and local cessations, and sometimes even 
a general suspension, of its rigor. An occurrence of this sort 
has secured for us most interesting information, connected 
with our subject. When the persecution of Severus had 
relaxed in other parts, it happened that Scapula, pro-consul 
of Africa, prolonged it in his province with unrelenting cruelty. 
He had condemned, among others, Mavilus of Adrumetum to 
be devoured by beasts, when he was seized with a severe 
illness. Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin writer, addressed 
a letter to him, in which he bids him take warning from this 
visitation, and repent of his crimes ; reminding hini of many 
judgments which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians, 
in various parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of 
those holy men, that he tells him they were offering up earnest 
prayers for their enemy's recovery! 

He then goes on to inform him, that he may very well 
fulfil his duties without practising cruelty, by acting as other 

* Eoma Subterr. 1. iii. c. 23. 



magistrates had done. For instance, Cincius Severus sug- 
gested to the accused the answers they should make, to be 
acquitted. Vespronius Candidus dismissed a Christian, on 
the ground that his condemnation would encourage tumults. 
Asper, seeing one ready to yield upon the application of slight 
torments, would not press him further; and expressed regret 
that such a case should have been brought before him. 
Pudens, on reading an act of accusation, declared the title 
informal, because calumnious, and tore it up. 

We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, 
and perhaps the tendencies, of governors and judges, in the 
enforcing even of imperial edicts of persecution. And St. 
Ambrose tells us that some governors boasted that they had 
brought back from their provinces their swords unstained with 
blood [incruenfos enses). 

We can also easily understand how, at any particular 
time, a savage persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or 
Asia, while the main part of the Church was enjoying peace. 
But Eome was undoubtedly the place most subject to fre- 
quent outbreaks of the hostile spirit; so that it might be 
considered as the privilege of its pontiffs, during the first 
three centuries, to bear the witness of blood to the faith 
which they taught. To be elected Pope was equivalent to 
being promoted to martyrdom. 

At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of 
those longer intervals of comparative peace, w^hich gave 
opportunity for great development. From the death of Vale- 
rian, in 268, there had been no new formal persecution, 
though the interval is glorified by many noble martyrdoms. 
During such periods, the Christians were able to cany out 
their religious system with completeness, and even with 
splendor. The city was divided into districts or parishes, 
each having its title, or church, served by priests, deacons, 
and inferior ministers. The poor were supported, the sick 



IT® 



visited, catechumens instructed ; the Sacraments were admin- 
istered, daily worship was practised, and the jDenitential 
canons were enforced by the clergy of each title ; and collec- 
tions were made for these purposes, and others connected with 
religious charity, and its consequence, hospitality. It is 
recorded, that in 250, during the pontificate of Cornelius, 
there were in Eome forty-six priests, a hundred and fifty-four 
inferior ministers, who were supported by the alms of the 
faithful, together with fifteen hundred poor.* This number 
of the priests pretty nearly corresponds to that of the titles, 
which St. Optatus tells us there were in Eome. 

Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs con- 
tinued to be objects of devotion during these more peaceful 
intervals, and these asylums of the persecuted were kept in 
order and repair, they did not then serve for the ordinary places 
of worship. The churches to which we have already alluded 
were often public, large, and even splendid; and heathens 
used to be present at the sermons delivered in them, and 
such portions of the liturgy as were open to catechumens. 
But generally they were in private houses, probably made out 
of the large halls, or triclinia, which the nobler mansions con- 
tained. Thus we know that many of the titles in Rome were 
originally of that character. Tertullian mentions Christian 
cemeteries under a name, and with circumstances, which 
show that they were above ground, for he compares them to 
" threshing-floors," which were necessarily exposed to the air. 

A custom of ancient Eoman life will remove an objection 
which may arise, as to how considerable multitudes could 
assemble in these places without attracting attention, and 
consequently persecution. It was usual for what may be 
called a lev^e to be held every morning by the rich, attended 
by dependents, or clients, and messengers from their friends, 
either slaves or freedmen, some of whom were admitted into 

* Euseb. E. H. 1. vi. c. 43. 






the inner court, to the master's presence, while others only 
presented themselves, and were dismissed. Hundreds might 
thus go in and out of a great house, in addition to the crowd 
of domestic slaves, tradespeople and others who had access to 
it, through the principal or the back entrance, and little or 
no notice would be taken of the circumstance. 

There is another important phenomenon in the social life 
of the early Christians, which one would hardly know how to 
believe, were not evidence of it brought before us in the most 
authentic Acts of the martyrs, and in ecclesiastical history. 
It is, the concealment which they contrived to j)ractise. No 
doubt can be entertained, that persons were moving in the 
highest society, were occupying conspicuous public situations, 
were near the persons of the emperors, who were Christians; 
and yet were not suspected to be such by their most intimate 
heathen friends. Nay, cases occurred where the nearest rela- 
tions were kept in total ignorance on this subject. No lie, no 
dissembling, no action especially, inconsistent with Christian 
morality or Christian truth, was ever permitted to ensure 
such secrecy. But every precaution compatible with com- 
plete uprightness was taken to conceal Christianity from the 
public eye.* 

However necessary this prudential course might be, to 
prevent any wanton persecution, its consequences fell often 
heavily upon those who held it. The heathen world, the 
world of power, of influence, and of state, the world which 
made laws as best suited it, and executed them, the world 
that loved earthly prosperity and hated faith, felt itself sur- 

* No domestic concealment surely could be more difiScult than that of a 
wife's religion from her husband. Yet Tertullian supposes this to have been not 
uncommon. For, speaking of a married woman communicating herself at home, 
according to practice in those ages of persecution, he says, " Let not your husband 
know what you taste secretly, before every other food ; and if he shall know of the 
bread, may he not know it to be what it is called." Ad Uxor. lib. ii. c. 5. 
Whereas, in another place, he writes of a Catholic husband and wife giving com- 
munion to one another. De Monogamia, c. 11. 



rounded, filled, compenetrated by a mysterious system, which 
spread, no one could see how, and exercised an influence 
derived no one knew whence. Families were startled at find- 
ing a son or daughter to have embraced this new law, with 
which they were not aware that they had been in contact, 
and which, in their heated fancies and popular views, they 
considered stupid, grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the 
hatred of Christianity was political as well as religious ; the 
system was considered as un-Roman, as having an interest 
opposed to the extension and prosperity of the empire, and as 
obeying an unseen and spiritual power. The Christians were 
pronounced irreligiosi in Ccesares, " disloyal to the emperors," 
and that was enough. Hence their security and peace 
depended much upon the state of popular feeling ; when any 
demagogue or fanatic could succeed in rousing this, neither 
their denial of the charges brought against them, nor their 
peaceful demeanor, nor the claims of civilized life, could 
suffice to screen them from such measure of persecution as 
could be safely urged against them. 

After these digressive remarks, we will resume, and unite 
again the broken thread of our narrative. 




A Mouogram of ClirisU 



niHr 



CHAPTER XII 



THE WOLF AND THE FOX. 




[HE hints of the African slave had not been 
thrown away upon the sordid mind of Cor- 
vinus. Her own hatred of Christianity arose 
from the circumstance, that a former mistress 
of hers had become a Christian and had manu- 
mitted all her other slaves; but, feeling it 
wrong to turn so dangerous a character as 
Afra, or rather Jubala (her proper name), upon the world, 
had transferred her to another proprietor. 

Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other 
places of public resort, had admired and envied him, for his 
appearance, his dress, his conversation. But with his 
untoward shyness, or moroseness, he could never have found 
courage to address him, had he not now discovered, that 
though a more refined, he was not a less profound, villain 
than himself. Fulvius's wit and cleverness might supply the 
want of these qualities in his own sottish composition, while 
his own brute force, and unfeeling recklessness, might be 
valuable auxiliaries to those higher gifts. He had the young 
stranger in his power, by the discovery which he had made of 
his real character. He determined, therefore, to make an 
effort, and enter into alliance with one who otherwise might 
prove a dangerous rival. 

It was about ten days after the meeting last described, 
that Corvinus went to stroll in Pompey's gardens. These 



Mi 



covered the space round his theatre, in the neighborhood of 
the present Piazza Farnese. A conflagration in the reign of 
Carinus had lately destroyed the scene, as it was called, of the 
edifice, and Dioclesian had repaired it with great magnificence. 
The gardens were distinguished from others by rows of plane- 
trees, which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts, 
fountains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them. 




Roman Gardens, li-oin an old painting. 

While sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, 
and made up to him. 

"What do you want with me?" asked the foreigner, with 
a look of surprise and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus. 

" To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your 
advantage — and mine." 

"What can you propose to me, with the first of these 
recommendations ? No doubt at all as to the second." 

"Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no preten- 
sions to your cleverness and elegance ; but we are both of one 
trade, and both consequently of one mind." 

Fulvius started, and deeply colored ; then said, with a con- 
temptuous air, "What do you mean, sirrah?" 

" If you double your fist," rejoined Corvinus, "to show me 
the fine rings on your delicate fingers, it is very well. But if 
you mean to threaten by it, you may as well put your hand 
again into the folds of your toga. It is more graceful." 



"Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you 
mean ? " 

"This, Fulvius," and he whispered into his ear, "that you 
are a sj^y and an informer." 

Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, "What right 
have you to make such an odious charge against me ? " 

"You discoverecV' (with a strong emphasis) "a conspiracy 
in the East, and Dioclesian — " 

Fulvius stopped him, and asked, " What is your name, and 
who are you ? " 

" I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, prefect of the city." 

This seemed to account for all; and Fulvius said, in 
subdued tones, "No more here; I see friends coming. Meet 
me disguised at daybreak to-morrow in the Patrician Street,* 
under the portico of the Baths of Novatus. We will talk more 
at leisure." 

Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first 
attempt at diplomacy ; he procured a garment shabbier than 
his own from one of his father's slaves, and was at the 
appointed spot by the first dawn of day. He had to wait a 
long time, and had almost lost patience, when he saw his new 
friend approach. 

Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore 
its hood over his face. He thus saluted Corvinus : 

"Good morning, comrade; I fear I have kept you waiting 
in the cold morning air, especially as you are thinly clad." 

" I own," replied Corvinus, "that I should have been tired, 
had I not been immensely amused and yet puzzled, by what I 
have been observing." 

"What is that?" 

"Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my 
coming, there have been arriving here from every side, and 
entering into that house, by the back door in the narrow 



The Vicus Patricias. 

131 



ffi 



w 



street, the rarest collection of miserable objects that you ever 
saw; the blind, the lame, the maimed, the decrepit, the 
deformed of every possible shape ; while by the front door 
several persons have entered, evidently of a different class." 

" Whose dwelling is it, do you know ? It looks a large old 
house, but rather out of condition." 

" It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old 
patrician. But look! there come some more." 

At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, 
was approaching, supported by a young and cheerful girl, who 
chatted most kindly to him as she supported him. 

"We are just there," she said to him; "a few more steps, 
and you shall sit down and rest." 

"Thank you, my child," replied the poor old man, "how 
kind of you to come for me so early ! " 

"I knew," she said, "you would want help; and as I am 
the most useless person about, I thought I would go and fetch 
you." 

" I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and 
it seems but natural ; but you, Cajcilia, are certainly an 
exception." 

" JSTot at all ; this is only nii/ way of showing selfishness." 

" How do you mean ? " 

"Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and 
then I get the satisfaction of supporting you. ' I was an 
eye to the blind,' that is you; and 'a foot to the lame,' 
that is myself." * 

They reached the door as she spoke these words. 

" That girl is blind," said Fulvius to Corvinus. " Do 
you not see how straight she walks, without looking right 
or left ? " 

" So she is," answered the other. " Surely this is not the 
place so often spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind 

* Job xxix. 15. 



see, and the lame walk, and all feast together? But yet I 
observed these people were so different from the mendicants on 
the Arician bridge.* They appeared respectable and even 
cheerful; and not one asked me for alms as he passed." 

"It is very strange ; and I should like to discover the 
mystery. A good job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The 
old patrician, you say, is very rich ? " 

" Immensely ! " 

"Humph ! How could one manage to get in ? " 

"I have it! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg 
like a cripple, and join the next group of queer ones that 
come, and go boldly in, doing as they do." 

" That will hardly succeed ; depend upon it every one of 
these people is known at the house." 

" I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was 
the house of the Lady Agnes." 

" Of whom ? " asked Fulvius, with a start. 

"Why do you look so?" said Corvinus. "It is the 
house of her parents : but she is better known than they, as 
being a young heiress, nearly as rich as her cousin Fabiola." 

Fulvius paused for a moment; a strong suspicion, too 
subtle and important to be communicated to his rude com- 
panion, flashed through his mind. He said, therefore, to 
Corvinus : 

"If you are sure that these people are not familiar at 
the house, try your plan. I have met the lady before, and 
will venture by the front door. Thus we shall have a double 
chance." 

" Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius ? " 

" Something very bright, no doubt." 

"That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall 
alivays have two chances." 

* The place most noted in the neighborhood of Eome for whining and 
importunate beggars. 



M^ 



w 



nv 



"What are they?" 

"The fox's and the wolf's, when they conspire to rob a 
fold." 

Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus 
returned by a hideous leer; and they separated for their 
respective posts. 




A Lamp, with the Monogram of Christ. 




= S we do not choose to enter the house of 
Agnes, either with the wolf or with the 
fox, we will take a more spiritual mode 
of doing so, and find ourselves at once 
inside. 

The parents of Agnes represented 
noble lines of ancestry, and her family 
was not one of recent conversion, but had for 
several generations professed the faith. As in heathen 
families was cherished the memory of ancestors who had won 
a triumph, or held high offices in the state, so in this, and 
other Christian houses, was preserved with pious reverence 
and affectionate pride, the remembrance of those relations 
who had, in the last hundred and fifty years or more, borne 
the palm of martyrdom, or occupied the sublimer dignities of 
the Church. But, though ennobled thus, and with a constant 
stream of blood poured forth for Christ, accompanying the 
waving branches of the family-tree, the stem had never been 
hewn down, but had survived repeated storms. This may 
appear surprising ; but when we reflect how many a soldier 
goes through a whole campaign of frequent actions and does 
not receive a wound; or how many a family remains 
untainted through a plague, we cannot be surprised if Provi- 
dence watched over the well-being of the Church, by preserv- 
ing in it, through old family successions, long unbroken 



w 



chains of tradition, and so enabling the faithful to say : 
" Unless the Lord of Hosts had left us seed, we had been as 
Sodom, and we should have been like to Gomorrha." * 

All the honors and the hopes of this family centred now 
in one, whose name is already known to our readers, Agnes, 
the only child of that ancient house. Given to her parents 
as they had reached the very verge of hope that their line 
could be continued, she had been from infancy blest with 
such a sweetness of disposition, such a docility and intelli- 
gence of mind, and such simplicity and innocence of charac- 
ter, that she had grown up the common object of love, and 
almost of reverence, to the entire house, from her parents 
down to the lowest servant. Yet nothing seemed to spoil, or 
warp, the compact virtuousness of her nature ; but her good 
qualities expanded, with a well-balanced adjustment, which 
at the early age in which we find her, had ripened into com- 
bined grace and wisdom. She shared all her parents' virtu- 
ous thoughts, and cared as little for- the world as they. She 
lived with them in a small portion of the mansion, which was 
fitted up with elegance, though not with luxury; and their 
establishment was adequate to all their wants. Here they 
received the few friends with whom they preserved familiar 
relations ; though, as they did not entertain, nor go out, these 
were few. Fabiola was an occasional visitor, though Agnes 
preferred going to see her at her house ; and she often 
expressed to her young friend her longing for the day, when, 
meeting with a suitable match, she would re-embellish and 
open all the splendid dwelling. For, notwithstanding the 
Yoconian law "on the inheritance of women," t now quite 
obsolete, Agnes had received, from collateral sources, large 
personal additions to the family property. 

* Is. i. 9. 

f " Ne quis hseredem virginem iieqne mulierem faeeret," that no one should 
leave a virgin or a woman his heiress. — Cicero in Verrem, i. 



w 



In general, of course, the heathen world, who visited, 
attributed appearances to avarice, and calculated what 
immense accumulations of wealth the miserly parents must 
be putting by; and concluded that all beyond the solid 
screen which shut up the second court, was left to fall into 
decay and ruin. 

It was not so, however. The inner part of the house, con- 
sisting of a large court, and the garden, with a detached 
dining-hall, or triclinium, turned into a church, and the upper 
portion of the house, accessible from those 
parts, were devoted to the administration of 
that copious charity, which the Church car- 
ried on as a business of its life. It was under 
the care and direction of the deacon Repara- 
tus, and his exorcist Secundus, officially 
appointed by the supreme Pontiff to take care 
of the sick, poor, and strangers, in one of the 
seven regions into which Pope Cajus, about 
five years before, had divided the city for this 
purpose ; committing each region to one of the 
seven deacons of the Roman Church, 

Rooms were set apart for lodging strangers 
who came from a distance, recommended by 
other churches; and a frugal table was pro- 
vided for them. Upstairs were apartments ^ d*"":™- fr°"> d^ RoBsrs 

■"^ J. t( Roma Sotteranea." 

for an hospital for the bed-ridden, the decrepit, 
and the sick, under the care of the deaconesses, and such of 
the faithful as loved to assist in this work of charity. It was 
here that the blind girl had her cell, though she refused to 
take her food, as we have seen, in the house. The tablinum, 
or muniment-room, which generally stood detached in the 
middle of the passage between the inner courts, served as the 
office and archives for transacting the business of this chari- 
table establishment, and preserving all local documents, such 




as the acts of martyrs, procured or compiled by the one of the 
seven notaries kept for that purpose, by institution of St. 
Clement L, who was attached to that region. 

A door of communication allowed the household to assist 
in these works of charity ; and Agnes had been accustomed 
from childhood to run in and out, many times a day, and to 
pass hours there; always beaming, like an angel of light, 
consolation and joy on the suffering and distressed. This 
house, then, might be called the almonry of the region, or dis- 
trict, of charity and hospitality in which it was situated, and 
it was accessible for these purposes through the -posticum or 
back door, situated in a narrow lane little frequented. IS'o 
wonder that with such an establishment, the fortune of the 
inmates should find an easy application. 

We heard Pancratius request Sebastian, to arrange for the 
distribution of his plate and jewels among the poor, without 
its being known to whom they belonged. He had not lost 
sight of the commission, and had fixed on the house of Agnes 
as the fittest for this purpose. On the morning which we 
have described the distribution had to take i^lace; other 
regions had sent their poor, accompanied by their deacons ; 
while Sebastian, Pancratius, and other persons of higher 
rank had come in through the front door, to assist in the 
division. Some of these had been seen to enter by Corvinus. 




A Fish carrying ]> !■ imi \\ iin-, fr >rii the Cemetery of St. Lucina. 



rtrb 



CHAPTER XIV 



EXTREMES MEET. 




not 



GEOUP of poor coming opportunely towards 
the door, enabled Corvinus to tack himself 
to them, — an admirable counterfeit, in all 
but the modesty of their deportment. He 
kept sufficiently close to them to hear that 
each of them, as he entered in, pronounced 
the words, "Deo gratias''' "Thanks be to 
God." This was not merely a Christian, but a Catholic 
pass-word ; for St. Augustine tells us that heretics ridi- • 
culed Catholics for using it, on the ground that it was 
a salutation but rather a reply; but that Catholics 
employed it, because consecrated by pious usage. It is yet 
heard in Italy on similar occasions. 

Corvinus pronounced the mystic words, and was allowed 
to pass. Following the others closely, and copying their 
manners and gestures, he found himself in the inner coui-t of 
the house, which was already filled with the poor and intirm. 
The men were ranged on one side, the women on the other. 
Under the portico at the end were tables piled with costly 
plate, and near them was another covered with brilliant jew- 
elry. Two silver and goldsmiths were weighing and valuing 
most conscientiously this property ; and beside them was the 
money which they would give, to be distributed amongst the 
poor, in just proportion. 

Corvinus eyed all this with a gluttonous heart. He would 



have given anything to get it all, and almost thought of mak- 
ing a dash at something, and running out. But he saw at 
once the folly or madness of such a course, and resolved to 
wait for a share, and in the meantime take note for Fulvius 
of all he saw. He soon, however, became aware of the awk- 
wardness of his present position. While the poor were all 
mixed up together and moving about, he remained unnoticed. 
But he soon saw several young men of peculiarly gentle man- 
ners, but active, and evidently in authority, dressed in the 
garment known to him by the name of Dalmatic, from its Dal- 
matian origin ; that is, having over the tunic, instead of the 
toga, a close-fitting shorter tunicle, with ample, but not over 
long or wide sleeves ; the dress adopted and worn by the dea- 
cons, not only at their more solemn ministrations in church, 
but also when engaged in the discharge of their secondary 
duties about the sick and poor. 

These officers went on marshalling the attendants, each evi- 
dently knowing those of his own district, and conducting them 
to a peculiar spot within the porticoes. But as no one recog- 
nized or claimed Corvinus for one of his poor, he was at length 
left alone in the middle of the court. Even his dull mind 
could feel the anomalous situation into which he had thrust 
himself. Here he was, the son of the prefect of the city, whose 
duty it was to punish such violators of domestic rights, an 
intruder into the innermost parts of a nobleman's house, hav- 
ing entered by a cheat, dressed like a beggar, and associating 
himself with such people, of course for some sinister, or at 
least unlawful, purpose. He looked towards the door, medi- 
tating an escape; but he saw it guarded by an old man 
named Diogenes and his two stout sons, Avho could hardly 
restrain their hot blood at this insolence, though they only 
showed it by scowling looks, and repressive biting of their 
lips. He saw that he was a subject of consultation among 
the young deacons, who cast occasional glances towards him ; 



ET 



he imagined that even the blind were staring at him, and the 
decrepit ready to wield their crutches like battle-axes against 
him. He had only one consolation ; it was evident he was 
not known, and he hoped to frame some excuse for getting out 
of the scrape. 

At length the Deacon Reparatus came up to him, and thus 
courteously accosted him : 

" Friend, you probably do not belong to one of the regions 
invited here to-day. Where do you live? " 

" In the region of the Alta Semita." * 

This answer gave the civil, not the ecclesiastical, division 
of Rome; still Reparatus went on: "The Alta Semita is in 
my region, yet I do not remember to have seen you." 

While he spoke these words, he was astonished to see the 
stranger turn deadly pale, and totter as if about to fall, while 
his eyes were fixed upon the door of communication with the 
dwelling-house. Reparatus looked in the same direction, and 
saw Pancratius, just entered, and gathering some hasty infor- 
mation from Secundus. Corvinus's last hope was gone. He 
stood the next moment confronted with the youth (who asked 
Reparatus to retire), much in the same position as they had 
last met in, only that, instead of a circle round him of 
applauders and backers, he was here hemmed in on all sides 
by a multitude who evidently looked with preference upon his 
rival. Nor could Corvinus help observing the graceful devel- 
opment and manly bearing, which a few weeks had given his 
late school-mate. He expected a volley of keen reproach, 
and, perhaps, such chastisement as he would himself have 
inflicted in similar circumstances. What was his amazement 
when Pancratius thus addressed him in the mildest tone : 

" Corvinus, are you really reduced to distress and lamed 
by some accident? Or how have you left your father's 
house? " 

* The upper part of the Quirinal, leading to the Nomentan gate, Porta Pia. 



® U u 



"Not quite come to that yet, I hope," replied the bully, 
encouraged to insolence by the gentle address, "though, no 
doubt, you would be heartily glad to see it." 

"By no means, I assure you; I hold you no grudge. If, 
therefore, you require relief, tell me; and though it is not 
right that you should be here, I can take you into a private 
chamber where you can receive it unknown." 

" Then I will tell you the truth : I came in here merely 
for a freak ; and I should be glad if you could get me quietly out." 

" Corvinus," said the youth, with some sternness, "this is 
a serious offence. What would your father say, if I desired 
these young men, who would instantly obey, to take you as 
you are, barefoot, clothed as a slave, counterfeiting a cripple, 
into the Forum before his tribunal, and publicly charge you 
with what every Roman would resent, forcing your way into 
the heart of a patrician's house ? " 

" For the gods' sakes, good Pancratius, do not inflict such 
frightful punishment." 

" You know, Corvinus, that your own father would be 
obliged to act towards you the part of Junius Brutus, or 
forfeit his office." 

" I entreat you by all that you love, by all that you hold 
sacred, not to dishonor me and mine so cruelly. My father and 
his house, not I, would be crushed and ruined for ever. I will 
go on my knees and beg your pardon for my former injuries, 
if you will only be merciful." 

"Hold, hold, Corvinus, I have told you that was long 
forgotten. But hear me now. Every one but the blind 
around you is a witness to this outrage. There will be a 
hundred evidences to prove it. If ever, then, you speak of 
this assembly, still more if you attempt to molest any one 
for it, we shall have it in our power to bring you to trial at 
your own father's judgment-seat. Do you understand me, 
Corvinus?" 



trd 



" I do, indeed," replied the captive in a whining tone. 
" Never, as long as I live, will I breathe to mortal soul that 
I came into this dreadful place. I swear it by the — '' 

" Hush, hush ! we want no such oaths here. Take my 
arm, and walk with me." Then turning to the others, he 
continued: " I know this person ; his coming here is quite a 
mistake." 

The spectators, who had taken the wretch's supplicating 
gestures and tone for accompaniments to a tale of woe, and 
strong application for relief, joined in crying out, " Pancratius, 
you will not send him away fasting and unsuccored ? " 

"Leave that to me," was the reply. The self-appointed 
porters gave way before Pancratius, who led Corvinus, still 
pretending to limp, into the street, and dismissed him, 
saying : " Corvinus, we are now quits ; only, take care of your 
jDromise." 

Fulvius, as we have seen, went to try his fortune by the 
front door. He found it, according to Roman custom, 
unlocked; and, indeed, no one could have suspected the 
possibility of a stranger entering at such an hour. Instead 
of a porter, he found, guarding the door, only a simple-looking 
girl about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in a peasant's 
garment. No one else was near ; and he thought it an excel- 
lent opportunity to verify the strong suspicion which had 
crossed his mind. Accordingly, he thus addressed the little 
portress : 

" What is your name, child, and who are you ? " 
"I am," she replied, " Emerentiana, the Lady Agnes's 
foster-sister." 

''Are you a Christian? " he asked her sharply. 

The poor little peasant opened her eyes in the amazement 

of ignorance, and replied: "No, sir." It was impossible to 

resist the evidence of her simplicity ; and Fulvius was satisfied 

that he was mistaken. The fact was, that she was the 



daughter of a peasant who had been Agnes' s nurse. The 
mother had just died, and her kind sister had sent for the 
orphan daughter, intending to have her instructed and bap- 
tized. She had only arrived a day or two before, and was yet 
totally ignorant of Christianity. 

Fulvius stood embarrassed what to do next. Solitude 
made him feel as awkwardly situated, as a crowd was making 
Corvinus. He thought of retreating, but this would have 
destroyed all his hopes; he was going to advance, when he 
reflected that he might commit himself unpleasantly. At 
this critical juncture, whom should he see coming lightly 
across the court, but the youthful mistress of the house, all 
joy, all spring, all brightness and sunshine. As soon as she 
saw him, she stood, as if to receive his errand, and he 
approached with his blande.st smile and most courtly gesture, 
and thus addressed her : 

" I have anticipated the usual hour at which visitors come, 
and, I fear, must appear an intruder, Lady Agnes ; but I was 
impatient to inscribe myself as an humble client of your noble 
house." 

"Our house," she replied, smiling, "boasts of no clients, 
nor do we seek them ; for we have no pretensions to influence 
or power." 

" Pardon me ; with such a ruler, it possesses the highest 
of influences and the mightiest of powers, those which reign, 
without effort, over the heart as a most willing subject." 

Incapable of imagining that such words could allude to 
herself, she replied, with artless simplicity : 

" Oh, how true are your words! the Lord of this house is 
indeed the sovereign over the affections of all within it." 

"But I," interposed Fulvius, "allude to that softer and 
benigner dominion, which graceful charms alone can exercise 
on those who from near behold them." 

Agnes looked as one entranced ; her eyes beheld a very 



ffi 



diflferent image before them from that of her wretched flat- 
terer; and with an impassioned glance towards heaven, she 
exclaimed : 

" Yes, He whose beauty sun and moon in their lofty firma- 
ment gaze on and admire, to Him is pledged my service and 
my love." * 

Fulvius was confounded and perplexed. The inspired 
look, the rapturous attitude, the music of the thrilling tones 
in which she uttered these words, their mysterious import, 
the strangeness of the whole scene, fastened him to the 
spot, and sealed his lips ; till, feeling that he was losing the 
most favorable opportunity he could ever expect of opening 
his mind (affection it could not be called) to her, he boldly 
said, " It is of you I am speaking ; and I entreat you to 
believe my expression of sincerest admiration of you, and of 
unbounded attachment to you." As he uttered these words, 
he dropt on his knee, and attempted to take her hand ; but 
the maiden bounded back with a shudder, and turned away 
her burning countenance. 

Fulvius started in an instant to his feet; for he saw 
Sebastian, who was come to summon Agnes to the poor, 
impatient of her absence, striding forward towards him, with 
an air of indignation. 

"Sebastian," said Agnes to him, as he approached, "be 
not angry ; this gentleman has probably entered here by some 
unintentional mistake, and no doubt will quietly retire." 
Saying this, she withdrew. 

Sebastian, with his calm but energetic manner, now 
addressed the intruder, who quailed beneath his look, 
" Fulvius, what do you here ? what business has brought 
you?" 

"I suppose," answered he, regaining courage, "that hav- 

* " Ciijus pulchritudinem sol et luaa mirantur, ipsi soli servo fidem." — Office 
of St. Agnes. 



ing met the lady of the house at the same place with you, 
her noble cousin's table, I have a light to wait upon her, in 
common with other voluntary clients." 

" But not at so unreasonable an hour as this, I presume?" 

" The hour that is not unreasonable for a young officer," 
retorted Fulvius insolently, " is not, I trust, so for a civilian." 

Sebastian had to use all his power of self-control to check 
his indignation, as he replied : 

"Fulvius, be not rash in what you say; but remember 
that two persons may be on *a very different footing in a 
house. Yet not even the longest familiarity, still less a one 
dinner's acquaintance, can authorize or justify the audacity 
of your bearing towards the young mistress of this house, a 
few moments ago." 

" Oh, you are jealous, I suppose, brave captain ! " replied 
Fulvius, with his most refined sarcastic tone. " Report 
says that you are the acceptable, if not accepted, candidate 
for Fabiola's hand. She is now in the country ; and, no doubt, 
you Tvish to make sure for yourself of the fortune of one or the 
other of Rome's richest heiresses. There is nothing like hav- 
ing two strings to one's bow." 

This coarse and bitter sarcasm w^ounded the noble officer's 
best feelings to the quick ; and had he not long before disci- 
plined himself to Christian meekness, his blood would have 
proved too powerful for his reason. 

"It is not good for either of us, Fulvius, that you remain 
longer here. The courteous dismissal of the noble lady 
whom you have insulted has not sufficed; I must be the 
ruder executor of her command." Saying this, he took the 
unbidden guest's arm in his powerful grasp, and conducted 
him to the door. When he had put him outside, still 
holding him fast, he added : "Go now, Fulvius, in peace ; 
and remember that you have this day made yourself 
amenable to the laws of the state by this unworthy con- 



n-o-® 



duct. I will spare you, if you know how to keep your own 
counsel; but it is well that you should know, that I am 
acquainted with your occupation in Rome; and that I 
hold this morning's insolence over your head, as a security 
that you will follow it discreetly. Now, again I say, go in 
peace." 

But he had no sooner let go his grasp, than he felt 
himself seized from behind by an unseen, but evidently an 
athletic, assailant. It was Eurotas, from whom Fulvius 
durst conceal nothing, and to whom he had confided the 
intended interview with Coi'vinus, that had followed and 
watched him. From the black slave he had before learnt 
the mean and coarse character of this client of her magical 
arts ; and he feared some trap. When he saw the seeming 
struggle at the door, he ran stealthily behind Sebastian, 
who, he fancied, must be his pupil's new ally, and pounced 
upon him with a bear's rude assault. But he had no com- 
mon rival to deal Avith. He attempted in vain, though 
now helped by Fulvius, to throw the soldier heavily down; 
till, despairing of success in this way, he detached from his 
girdle a small but deadly weapon, a steel mace of finished 
Syrian make, and Avas raising it over the back of Sebas- 
tian's head, when he felt it wrenched in a trice from his 
hand, and himself twirled two or three times round, in an 
iron gripe, and flung flat in the middle of the sti-eet. 

" I am afraid you have hurt the poor fellow, Quadratus," 
said Sebastian to his centurion, who was coming up at that 
moment to join his fetlow-Christians, and was of most Hercu- 
lean nuike and strength. 

"He well deserves it, tribune, for his cowardly assault," 
replied the other, as they re-entered the house. 

The two foreigners, crest-fallen, slunk away from the 
scene of their defeat ; and as they turned the corner, caught 
a glimpse of Corvinus, no longer limping, but running as 



w 



fast as his legs would cany him, from his discomfiture at 
the back-door. However often they may have met after- 
wards, neither ever alluded to their feats of that morning. 
Each knew that the other had incurred only failure and 
shame; and they came both to the conclusion, that there 
was one fold at least in Rome, which either fox or wolf 
would assail in vain. 




A wall painting from the Cemetery of bt. PrieciUa. 



ffi 






CHAPTER XV. 




CHARITY RETURNS. 

*HEN calm had been restored, after this 
twofold disturbance, the work of the 
day went quietly on. Besides the dis- 
tribution of greater alms, such as w^as 
made by St. Laurence, from the Church, 
it was by no means so uncommon in 
early ages, for fortunes to be given aw^ay 
at once, by those who wished to retire from 
the world.* Indeed we should naturally 
expect to find that the noble charity of the 
Apostolic Church at Jerusalem would not be a barren 
example to that of Rome. But this extraordinary charity 
would be most naturally suggested at periods when the 
Church was threatened with persecution; and when Chris- 
tians, who from position and circumstances might look 
forward to martyrdom, would, to use a homely phrase, clear 
their hearts and houses for action, by removing from both 
w^hatever could attach themselves to earth, and become the 
spoil of the impious soldier, instead of having been made the 
inheritance of the poor.t 

Nor would the great principles be forgotten, of making the 



* We have it recorded of Nepotian, that on his conversion he distributed all 
his property to the poor. St. Paulinua of Nola did the same. 

f " Dabis impio militi quod non vis dare sacerdoti, et hoc tollit fiscus, quod 
con accinit Christus." — St. Aug. 



light of good works to shine' before men, while the hand which 
filled the lamp, poured in its oil in the secret, which only He 
who seeth in secret can penetrate. The plate and jewels of a 
noble family publicly valued, sold, and, in their price, distrib- 
uted to the poor, must have been a bright example of charity, 
which consoled the Church, animated the generous, shamed 
the avaricious, touched the heart of the catechumen, and drew 
blessings and prayers from the lips of the poor. And yet the 
individual right hand that gave them remained closely 
shrouded from the scrutiny or consciousness of the left ; and 
the humility and modesty of the noble giver remained con- 
cealed in His bosom, into which these earthly treasures were 
laid up, to be returned with boundless and eternal usury. 

And such was the case in the instance before us. When 
all was prepared, Dionysius the priest, who at the same time 
was the physician to whom the care of the sick was commit- 
ted, and who had succeeded Polycarp in the title of St. Pastor, 
made his appearance, and seated in a chair at one end of the 
court, thus addressed the assembly : 

"Dear brethren, our merciful God has touched the heart 
of some charitable brother, to have compassion on his poorer 
brethi-en, and strip himself of much wordly possession, for 
Christ's sake. Who he is I know not; nor would I seek to 
know. He is some one who loves not to have his treasures 
where rust consumes, and thieves break in and steal, but pre- 
fers, like the blessed Laurence, that they should be borne up, 
by the hands of Christ's poor, into the heavenly treasury. 

" Accept then, as a gift from God, who has inspired this 
charity, the distribution which is about to be made, and which 
may be a useful help, in the days of tribulation which are pre- 
paring for us. And as the only return which is desired from 
you, join all in that familiar prayer which we daily recite for 
those who give, or do us good." 

During this brief address poor Pancratius knew not which 



c=t 




St. Laurence displaying his Treasures. 



way to look. He had shrunk into a corner behind the assist- 
ants, and Sebastian had compassionately stood before him, 
making himself as large as possible. And his emotion did all 
but betray him, when the whole of that assembly knelt down, 
and with outstretched hands, uplifted eyes, and fervent tone, 
cried out, as if with one voice : 

^^ Retrihnere dignare, Domine, omnibus nobis bona facientibus, 
propter Nomen tuum, vitam ceternam. Amen." * 

The alms were then distributed, and they proved unex- 
pectedly large. Abundant food was also served out to all, 
and a cheerful banquet closed the edifying scene. It was yet 
early : indeed many partook not of food, as a still more deli- 
cious, and spiritual, feast was about to be prepared for them 
in the neighboring titular church. 

When all was over, Cjecilia insisted uj)on seeing her poor 
old cripple safe home, and upon carrying for him his heavy 
canvas purse ; and chatted so cheerfully to him that he was 
surprised when he found they had reached the door of his 
poor but clean lodging. His blind guide then thrust his 
purse into his hand, and giving him a hurried good day, 
tripped away most lightly, and was soon lost to his sight. 
The bag seemed uncommonly full ; so he counted carefully its 
contents, and found, to his amazement, that he had a double 
portion. He tried again, and still it was so. At the first 
opportunity, he made inquiries from Eeparatus, but could get 
no explanation. If he had seen CaBcilia, when she had turned 
the corner, laugh outright, as if she had been playing some 
one a good trick, and running as lightly as if she had nothing 
heavy about her, he might have discovered a solution of the 
problem of his wealth. 

* " Be pleased to render, Lord, eternal life to all who for Thy Name's sake 
do unto us good things." 



'^^:)s^ 




CHAPTER XVI, 



THE MONTH OF OCTOBER. 



HE month of October in Italy is certainly 
a glorious season. The sun has con- 
tracted his heat, but not his splendor; 
he is less scorching, but not less bright. 
As he rises in the morning, he dashes 
sparks of radiance over awakening nat- 
ure, as an Indian prince, upon entering 
his presence chamber, flings handfuls of 
gems and gold into the crowd ; and the 
mountains seem to stretch forth their 
rocky heads, and the woods to wave their lofty arms, in 
eagerness to catch his royal largess. And after career- 
ing through a cloudless sky, when he reaches his goal 
and finds his bed spread with molten gold on the west- 
ern sea, and canopied above with purple clouds, edged with 
burnished yet airy fringes, more brilliant than Ophir supplied 
to the couch of Solomon, he expands himself into a huge disk 
of most benignant effulgence, as if to bid farewell to his past 
course ; but soon sends back, after disappearing, radiant mes- 
sengers from the world he is visiting and cheering, to remind 
us he will soon come back, and gladden us again. If less 
powerful, his ray is certainly richer and more active. It has 
taken months to draw out of the sapless, shrivelled vine-stem, 
first green leaves, then crisp slender tendrils, and last little 
clusters of hard sour berries ; and the growth has been pro- 



vokingly slow. But now the leaves are large and mantling, 
and worthy in vine-countries to have a name of their own ; * 
and the separated little knots have swelled up into luxuiious 
bunches of grapes. And of these some are already assuming 
their bright amber tint, w^hile those which are to glow in rich 
imperial purple, are passing rapidly to it, through a changing 
opal hue, scarcely less beautiful. 

It is pleasant then to sit in a shady spot, on a hill-side, 
and look ever and anon, from one's book, over the varied and 
varying landscape. For, as the breeze sweeps over the olives 
on the hill-side, and turns over their leaves, it brings out from 
them light and shade, for their two sides vary in sober tint ; 
and as the sun shines, or the cloud darkens, on the vineyards, 
in the rounded hollow^s between, the brilliant w^eb of unstir- 
ring vine-leaves disj^lays a yellower or browner shade of its 
delicious green. Then, mingle with these the innumerable 
other colors that tinge the picture, from the dark cypress, the 
duller ilex, the rich chestnut, the reddening orchard, the adust 
stubble, the melancholy pine — to Italy v^diat the palm-tree is 
to the East — towering above the box, and the arbutus, and 
laurels of villas, and these scattered all over the mountain, hill, 
and plain, with fountains leaping up, and cascades gliding 
down, porticoes of glittering marble, statues of bronze and 
stone, painted fronts of rustic dwellings, with flowers innu- 
merable, and patches of greensward ; and you have a faint idea 
of the attractions wdiich, for this month, as in our days, used to 
draw out the Roman patrician and knight, from wdiat Horace 
calls the clatter and smoke of Rome, to feast his eyes upon 
the calmer beauties of the country. 

And so, as the happy month approached, villas were seen 
open to let in air ; and innumerable slaves were busy, dusting 
and scouring, trimming the hedges into fantastic shapes, 
clearing the canals for the artificial brooklets, and plucking 

* Pampirms, pampino. 



up the weeds from the gravel-walks. The villicns or country 
steward superintends all; and with sharp word, or sharper 
lash, makes many suffer, that perhaps one only may enjoy. 

At last the dusty roads become encumbered with every 
species of vehicle, from the huge wain carrying furniture, and 
slowly drawn by oxen, to the light chariot or gig, dashing 
on behind spirited barbs ; and as the best roads were narrow, 
and the drivers of other days were not more smooth-tongued 
than those of ours, we may imagine Avhat confusion and noise 
and squabbling filled the public ways. Nor was there a 
favored one among these. Sabine, Tusculan, and Alban hills 
were all studded over with splendid villas, or humbler cot- 
tages, such as a Maecenas or a Horace might respectively 
occupy ; even the fiat Campagna of Rome is covered with the 
ruins of immense country residences ; while from the mouth 
of the Tiber, along the coast of Laurentum, Lanuvium, and 
Antium, and so on to Cajeta, Baja3, and other fashionable 
Avatering-places round Vesuvius, a street of noble residences 
may be said to have run. Nor were these limits sufficient to 
satisfy the periodical fever for rustication in Rome. The 
borders of Benacus (now the Lago Maggiore, north of Milan), 
Como, and the beautiful banks of the Brenta, received their 
visitors not from neighboring cities only, still less from wan- 
derers of G-ermanic origin, but rather from the inhabitants of 
the imperial capital. 

It was to one of these " tender eyes of Italy," as Pliny 
calls its villas,* because forming its truest beauty, that Fabiola 
had hastened, before the rush on the road, the day after her 
black slave's interview with Corvinus. It was situated on 
the slojDe of the hill which descends to the bay of Gaeta, and 
was remarkable, like her house, for the good taste which 
arranged the most costly, though not luxurious, elements of 
comfort. From the terrace in front of the elegant villa could 

* Ocelli IlalicB. 



be seen the calm azure bay, embowered in the richest of 
shores, like a mirror in an embossed and enamelled frame, 
relieved by the white sun-lit sails of yachts, galleys, pleasure- 
boats, and fishing-skiffs ; from some of which rose the roaring 
laugh of excursionists, from others the song or harp-notes of 
family parties, or the loud, sharp, and not over-refined ditties 
of the various ploughmen of the deep. A gallery of lattice, 
covered with creepers, led to the baths on the shore ; and half 
way down was an opening on a favorite spot of green, kept 
ever fresh by the gush, from an out-cropping rock, of a crystal 
spring, confined for a moment in a natural basin, in which it 
bubbled and fretted, till, rushing over its ledge, it went down 
murmuring and chattering, in the most good-natured way 
imaginable, along the side of the trellis, into the sea. Two 
enormous plane-trees cast their shade over this classic ground, 
as did Plato's and Cicero's over their choice scenes of philo- 
sophical disquisition. The most beautiful flowers and plants 
from distant climates had been taught to make this spot their 
home, sheltered, as it was, equally from sultriness and from 
frost. 

Fabius, for reasons which will be explained later, seldom 
paid more than a flying visit for a couple of days to this villa ; 
and even • then it was generally on his way to some gayer 
resort of Roman fashion, where he had, or pretended to have, 
business. His daughter was, therefore, mostly alone, and 
enjoyed a delicious solitude. Besides a well-furnished library 
always kept at the villa, chiefly containing works on agricul- 
ture, or of a local interest, a stock of books, some old favorites, 
other lighter productions of the season (of which she generally 
procured an early copy at a high price), was biought every 
year from Rome, together with a quantity of smaller familiar 
works of art, such as, distributed through new apartments, 
make them become a home. Most of her morning hours were 
spent in the cherished retreat just described, with a book- 



casket at her side, from which she selected first one volume, 
and then another. But any visitor calling upon her this year, 
would have been surprised to find her almost always with a 
companion — and that a slave ! 

We may imagine how amazed she was when, the day fol- 
lowing the dinner at her house, Agnes informed her that Syra 
had declined leaving her service, though tempted by a bribe 
of liberty. Still more astonished was she at learning, that 
the reason was attachment to herself. She could feel no 
pleasurable consciousness of having earned this affection by 
any acts of kindness, nor even by any decent gratitude for her 
servant's care of her in illness. She was therefore at first 
inclined to think Syra a fool for her pains. But it would not 
do in her mind. It was true she had often read or heard of 
instances of fidelity and devotedness in slaves, even towards 
oppressive masters;* but these were always accounted as 
exceptions to the general rule ; and what were a few dozen 
cases, in as many centuries, of love, compared with the daily 
ten thousand ones of hatred around her? Yet here was a 
clear and palpable one at hand, and it struck her forcibly. 
She waited a time, and watched her maid eagerly, to see if she 
could discover in her conduct any airs, any symptom of think- 
ing she had done a grand thing, and that her mistress must 
feel it. Not in the least. Syra pursued all her duties with 
the same simple diligence, and never betrayed any signs of 
believing herself less a slave than before. Fabiola's heart 
softened more and more; and she now began to think that 
not quite so difficult, which, in her conversation with Agnes, 
she had pronounced impossible — to love a slave. And she 
had also discovered a second evidence, that there was such a 
thing in the world as disinterested love, affection that asked 
for no return. 

* Such as are given by Macrobius in his Saturnalia, lib. i., and by Valerius 
Maxim us. 



Her conversations with her slave, after the memorable one 
which we have recounted, had satisfied her that she had 
received a superior education. She was too delicate to ques- 
tion her on her early history ; especially as masters often had 
young slaves highly educated, to enhance their value. But 
she soon discovered that she read Greek and Latin authors 
with ease and elegance, and wrote well in both languages. By 
degrees she raised her position, to the great annoyance of her 
companions : she ordered Euphrosyne to give her a separate 
room, the greatest of comforts to the poor maid; and she 
employed her near herself as a secretary and reader. Still 
she could perceive no change in her conduct, no pride, no 
pretensions ; for the moment any work presented itself of the 
menial character formerly allotted to her, she never seemed to 
think of turning it over to any one else, but at once naturally 
and cheerfully set herself about it. 

The reading generally pursued by Fabiola was, as has 
been previously observed, of rather an abstruse and refined 
character, consisting of philosophical literature. She was 
surprised, however, to find how her slave, by a simple remark, 
would often confute an apparently solid maxim, bring down a 
grand flight of virtuous declamation, or suggest a higher view 
of moral truth, or a more practical course of action, than 
authors whom she had long admired proposed in their writ- 
ings. Nor was this done by any apparent shrewdness of 
judgment or pungency of wit; nor did it seem to come from 
much reading, or deep thought, or superiority of education. 
For though she saw traces of this in Syra's words, ideas, and 
behavior, yet the books and doctrines which she was reading 
now, were evidently new to her. But there seemed to be in 
her maid's mind some latent but infallible standard of truth, 
some master-key, which opened equally every closed deposit of 
moral knowledge, some well-attuned chord, which vibrated in 
unfailing unison with what was just and right, but jangled in 



dir 



dissonance with whatever was wrong, vicious, or even inac- 
curate. What this secret was, she wanted to discover ; it was 
more like an intuition than any thing she had before wit- 
nessed. She was not yet in a condition to learn, that the 
meanest and least in the Kingdom of Heaven (and what 
lower than a slave ?) w^as greater in spiritual wisdom, intel- 
lectual light, and heavenly privileges, than even the Baptist 
Precursor.* 

It was on a delicious morning in October, that, reclining 
by the spring, the mistress and slave were occupied in reading ; 
when the former, wearied with the heaviness of the volume, 
looked for something lighter and newer ; and, drawing out a 
manuscript from her casket, said : 

"Syra, put that stupid book down. Here is something, I 
am told, very amusing, and only just come out. It will be 
new to both of us." 

The handmaid did as she w^as told, looked at the title of 
the proposed volume, and blushed. She glanced over the few 
first lines, and her fears were confirmed. She saw that is was 
one of those trashy works, which were freely allowed to cir- 
culate, as St. Justin complained, though grossly immoral, 
and making light of all virtue; while every Christian 
writing was suppressed, or as much as possible discounte- 
nanced. She put down the book with a calm resolution, and 
said : 

" Do not, my good mistress, ask me to read to you from 
that book. It is fit neither for me to recite, nor for you to 
hear." 

Fabiola was astonished. She had never heard, or even 
thought, of such a thing as restraint put upon her studies. 
What in our days would be looked upon as unfit for common 
perusal, formed part of current and fashionable literature. 
From Horace to Ausonius, all classical writers demonstrate 

* Matt. xii. 11. 



this. And what rale of virtue could have made that reading 
seem indelicate, which only described by the pen a system of 
morals, which the pencil and the chisel made hourly familiar 
to every eye ? Fabiola had no higher standard of right and 
wrong than the system under which she had been educated 
could give her. 

"What possible harm can it do either of us? " she asked, 
smiling. " I have no doubt there are plenty of foul crimes and 
wicked actions described in the book ; but it will not induce 
us to commit them. And, in the meantime, it is amusing to 
read them of others." 

"Would you yourself, for any consideration, do them? " 

" Not for the world." 

"Yet, as you hear them read, their image must occupy 
your mind ; as they amuse you, your thoughts must dwell 
upon them with pleasure." 

" Certainly. What then ? " 

" That image is foulness, that thought is wickedness." 

" How is that possible ? Does not wickedness require an 
action, to have any existence?" 

"True, my mistress; and what is the action of the mind, 
or as I call it the soul, but thought ? A passion which tuishes 
death, is the action of this invisible power, like it, unseen ; 
the blow which inflicts it is but the mechanical action of the 
body, discernible like its origin. But which power commands, 
and which obeys ? In which resides the responsibility of the 
final effect ? " 

"I understand you," said Fabiola, after a pause of some 
little mortification. " But one difficulty remains. There is 
responsibility, you maintain, for the inward, as well as the 
outward act. To whom? If the second follow, there is joint 
responsibility for both, to society, to the laws, to principles of 
justice, to self; for painful results will ensue. But if only the 
inward action exist, to whom can there be responsibility? 



Who sees it? "Who can presume to judge it? Who to 
control it? " 

" God," answered Sjra, with simple earnestness. 

Fabiola was disappointed. She expected some new theory, 
some striking principle, to come out. Instead, they had sunk 
down into what she feared was mere superstition, though not 
so much as she once had deemed it. "What, Syra, do you 
then really believe in Jupiter, and Juno, or perhaps Minerva, 
who is about the most respectable of the Olympian family? 
Do you think they have any thing to do with our affairs? " 

"Far indeed from it; I loathe their very names, and I 
detest the wickedness which their histories or fables symbolize 
on earth. 'No, I spoke not of gods and goddesses, but of one 
only God." 

" And Avhat do you call Him, Syra, in your system ? " 

" He has no name but God ; and that only men have given 
Him, that they may speak of Him. It describes not His 
nature. His origin, His attributes." 

"And what are these?" asked the mistress, with awak- 
ened curiosity. 

" Simple as light is His nature, one and the same every 
where, indivisible, undefilable, penetrating yet diffusive, ubi- 
quitous and unlimited. He existed before there was any 
beginning ; He will exist after all ending has ceased. Power, 
wisdom, goodness, love, justice too, and unerring judgment 
belong to Him by His nature, and are as unlimited and unre- 
strained as it. He alone can create. He alone preserve, and 
He alone destroy." 

Fabiola had often read of the inspired looks which ani- 
mated a sibyl, or the priestess of an oracle ; but she had never 
witnessed them till now. The slave's countenance glowed, 
her eyes shone with a calm brilliancy, her frame Avas immov- 
able, the words flowed from her lips, as if these were but the 
opening of a musical reed, made vocal by another's breath. 







Her expression and manner forcibly reminded Fabiola of that 
abstracted and mysterious look, which she had so often noticed 
in Agnes; and though in the child it was more tender and 
graceful, in the maid it seemed more earnest and oracular. 
" How enthusiastic and excitable an Eastern temperament is, 
to be sure ! " thought Fabiola, as she gazed upon her slave. 
" JSTo wonder the East should be thought the land of poetry 
and inspiration." When she saw Syra relaxed from the 
evident tension of her mind, she said, in as light a tone as she 
could assume: "But, Syra, can you think that a Being such 
as you have described, far beyond all the conception of ancient 
fable, can occupy Himself with constantly watching the actions, 
still more the paltry thoughts, of millions of creatures? " 

" It is no occupation, lady, it is not even choice. I called 
Him light. Is it occupation or labor to the sun to send his 
rays through the crystal of this fountain, to the very pebbles 
in its bed? See how, of themselves they disclose, not only 
the beautiful, but the foul that harbors there; not only the 
sparkles that the falling drops strike from its rough sides ; 
not only the pearly bubbles that merely rise, glisten for a 
moment, then break against the surface ; not only the golden 
fish that bask in their light, but black and loathsome creeping 
things, which seek to hide and bury themselves in dark nooks 
below, and cannot; for the light pursues them. Is there toil 
or occupation in all this, to the sun that thus visits them ? 
Far more would it appear so, were he to restrain his beams at 
the surface of the transparent element, and hold them back 
from throwing it into light. And what he does here he does 
in the next stream, and in that which is a thousand miles off, 
with equal ease; nor can any imaginable increase of their 
number, or bulk, lead us to fancy, or believe, that rays would 
be wanting, or light would fail, to scrutinize them all." 

"Your theories are beautiful always, Syra, and, if true, 
most wonderful," observed Fabiola, after a pause, during 



which her eyes were fixedly contemplating the fountain, as 
though she were testing the truth of Syra's words. 

"And they sound like truth," she added; "for could false- 
hood be more beautiful than truth ? But what an awful idea, 
that one has never been alone, has never had a wish to one- 
self, has never held a single thought in secret, has never 
hidden the most foolish fancy of a proud or childish brain, 
from the observation of One that knows no imperfection. 
Terrible thought, that one is living, if you say true, under the 
steady gaze of an Eye, of which the sun is but a shadow, for 
he enters not the soul ! It is enough to make one any evening 
commit self-destruction, to get rid of the torturing watchful- 
ness ! Yet it sounds so true! " 

Fabiola looked almost wild as she spoke these words. 
The pride of her pagan heart rose strong within her, and she 
rebelled against the supposition that she could never again 
feel alone with her own thoughts, or that any power should 
exist which could control her inmost desires, imaginings, or 
caprices. Still the thought came back: "Yet it seems so 
true ! " Her generous intellect struggled against the writhing 
passion, like an eagle with a serpent; more with eye, than 
with beak and talons, subduing the quailing foe. After a 
struggle, visible in her countenance and gestures, a calm came 
over her. She seemed for the first time to feel the presence 
of One greater than herself, some one whom she feared, yet 
whom she would wish to love. She bowed down her mind, 
she bent her intelligence to His feet ; and her heart too owned, 
for the first time, that it had a Master, and a Lord. 

Syra, with calm intensity of feeling, silently watched the 
workings of her mistress's mind. She knew how much 
depended on their issue, what a mighty step in her uncon- 
scious pupil's religious progress was involved in the recogni- 
tion of the truth before her ; and she fervently prayed for this 
grace. 



mi 



CLfl- 



At length Fabiola raised her head, which seemed to have 
been bowed down in accompaniment to her mind, and with 
graceful kindness said : 

" Syra, I am sure I have not yet reached the depths of 
your knowledge; you must have much more to teach me." 
(A tear and a blush came to the poor handmaid's relief.) 
" But to-day you have opened a new world, and a new life, to 
my thoughts. A sphere of virtue beyond the opinions and 
the judgments of men, a consciousness of a controlling, an 
approving, and a. rewardmg Power too; am I right?" (Syra 
expressed approbation,) " standing by us when no other eye 
can see, or restrain, or encourage us ; a feeling that, were we 
shut up forever in solitude, we should be ever the same, 
because that influence on us must be so superior to that of 
any amount of human principles, in guiding us, and could not 
leave us; such, if I understand your theory, is the position of 
moral elevation, in which it would place each individual. To 
fall below it, even with an outwardly virtuous life, is mere 
deceit, and positive wickedness. Is this so? " 

" my dear mistress," exclaimed Syra, "how much better 
you can express all this than I ! " 

" You have never flattered me yet, Syra," replied Fabiola, 
smilingly ; "do not begin now. But you have thrown a new 
light upon other subjects, till to-day obscure to me. Tell me, 
now, was it not this you meant, when you once told me that 
in your view there was no distinction between mistress and 
slave ; that is, that as the distinction is only outward, bodily 
and social, it is not to be put in comparison with that equal- 
ity which exists before your Supreme Being, and that possible 
moral superiority which He might see of the one over the 
other, inversely of their visible rank? " 

" It was in a great measure so, my noble lady ; though 
there are other considerations involved in the idea, which 
would hardly interest you at present." 



" And yet, when you stated that proposition, it seemed to 
me so monstrous, so absurd, that pride and anger overcame 
me. Do you remember that, Syra? " 

" Oh, no, no ! " replied the gentle servant ; " do not allude 
to it, I pray ! " 

"Have you forgiven me that day, Syra?" said the mis- 
tress, with an emotion quite new to her. 

The poor maid was overj^owered. She rose and threw her- 
self on her knees before her mistress, and tried to seize her 
hand ; but she prevented her, and, for the first time in her 
life, Fabiola threw herself upon a slave's neck, and wept. 

Her passion of tears was long and tender. Her heart was 
getting above her intellect; and this can only be by its 
increasing softness. At length she grew calm; and as she 
Avithdrew her embrace she said : 

" One thing more, Syra : dare one address, by worship, 
this Being whom you have described to me ? Is He not too 
great, too lofty, too distant for this ? " 

" Oh, no ! far from it, noble lady," answered the servant. 
" He is not distant from any of us ; for as much as in the 
light of the sun, so in the very splendor of His might. His 
kindness, and His wisdom, we live and move and have our 
being. Hence, one may address Him, not as far off, but as 
around us and within us, while we are in Him ; and He 
hears us not with ears, but our words drop at once into His 
very bosom, and the desires of our hearts pass directly into 
the divine abyss of His." 

" But," pursued Fabiola, somewhat timidly, " is there no 
great act of acknowledgment, such as sacrifice is supposed to 
be, whereby »He may be formally recognized and adored? " 

Syra hesitated, for the conversation seemed to be trench- 
ing upon mysterious and sacred ground, never opened by the 
Church to profane foot. She, however, answered in a simple 
and general affirmative. 



" And could not I," still more humbly asked her mistress, 
"be so far instructed in your school as to be able to perform 
this sublimer act of homage? " 

"I fear not, noble Fabiola; one must needs obtain a Vic- 
tim worthy of the Deity." 

"Ah, yes! to be sure," answered Fabiola. "A bull may 
be good enough for Jupiter, or a goat for Bacchus ; but where 
can be found a sacrifice worthy of Him whom you have 
brought me to know ? " 

" It must indeed be one every way worthy of Him, spotless 
in purity, matchless in greatness, unbounded in accepta- 
bleness." 

" And what can that be, Syra ? " 

" Only Himself." 

Fabiola shrouded her face Avith her hands, and then look- 
ing up earnestly into Syra's face, said to her: 

" I am sure that, after having so clearly described to me 
the deep sense of responsibility under which you must habit- 
ually speak, as well as act, you have a real meaning in this 
awful saying, though I understand you not." 

"As surely as every word of mine is heard, as every 
thought of mine is seen, it is a truth which I have spoken." 

" I have not sti'ength to carry the subject further at pres- 
ent; my mind has need of rest." 




A Monogram of Christ, fonnd in the Catacombs. 







CHAPTER XVII. 
THE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY. 

FTER this conversation Fabiola retired ; 
and during the rest of the day her mind 
was alternately agitated and calm. 
When she looked steadily on the gTand 
view of moral life which her mind had 
grasped, she found an imusual tranquil- 
hty in its contemplation ; she felt as if 
she had made discovery of a great 
phenomenon, the knowledge of which guided her into a new 
and lofty region, whence she could smile on the errors and 
foUies of mankind. But when she considered the responsibil- 
ity which this light imposed, the watchfulness which it 
demanded, the imseen and unrequited struggles which it 
required, the desolateness, almost, of a virtue without admira- 
tion or even sympathy, she again shrunk from the life that 
was before her, as about to be passed without any stay or 
help, from the only sources of it which she knew. Uncon- 
scious of the real cause, she saw that she possessed not 
instruments or means, to cany out the beautiful theory. 
This seemed to stand like a brilliant lamp in the midst of a 
huge. bare, unfurnished hall, lighting up only a wilderness. 
TThat was the use of so much wasted splendor ? 

The next morning had been fixed for one of those visits 
which used to be annually paid in the country, — that to the 
now ex-prefect of the city. Chromatins. Our reader will 






strb 



remember, that after his conversion and resignation of office, 
this magistrate had retired to his villa in Campania, taking 
with him a number of the converts made by Sebastian, with 
the holy priest Polycarp, to complete their instruction. Of 
these circumstances, of course, Fabiola had never been 
informed; but she heard all sorts of curious reports about 
Chromatius's villa. It was said that he had a number of 
visitors never before seen at his house; that he gave no 
entertainments ; that he had freed all his country slaves, but 
that many of them had preferred remaining with him ; that 
if numerous, the whole establishment seemed very happy, 
though no boisterous sports or frolicsome meetings seemed to 
be indulged in. All this stimulated Fabiola' s curiosity, in 
addition to her wish to discharge a pleasing duty of courtesy 
to a most kind friend of hers from childhood ; and she longed 
to see, with her own eyes, what appeared to her to be a very 
Platonic, or, as we should say, Utopian, experiment. 

In a light country carriage, with good horses, Fabiola 
started early, and dashed gaily along the level road across the 
" happy Campania." An autumnal shower had laid the dust, 
and studded with glistening gems the garlands of vine which 
bordered the way, festooned, instead of hedges, from tree to 
tree. It w^as not long before she reached the gentle acclivity, 
for hill it could scarce be called, covered with box, arbutus, 
and laurels, relieved by tall tapering cypresses, amidst which 
shone the white walls of the large villa on the summit. A 
change, she perceived, had taken place, which at first she could 
not exactly define ; but when she had passed through the gate, 
the number of empty pedestals and niches reminded her that 
the villa had entirely lost one of its most characteristic orna- 
ments, — the number of beautiful statues which stood gracefully 
against the clipped evergreen hedges, and gave it the name, 
now become quite an empty one, of Ad Statuas* 

* " The Villa of Statues," or " at the Statues." 






Chromatius, whom she had last seen limping with gout, 
now a hale old man, courteously received her, and inquired 
kindly after her father, asking if the report were true that he 
was going shortly to Asia. At this Fabiola seemed grieved 
and mortified ; for he had not mentioned his intention to her. 
Chromatius hoped it might be a false alarm, and asked her to 
take a stroll about the grounds. She found them kept with 
the same care as ever, full of beautiful plants ; but still much 
missed the old statues. At last they reached a grotto with a 
fountain, in which formerly nymphs and sea-deities disported, 
but which now presented a black unbroken surface. She 
could contain herself no longer, and turning to Chromatius, 
she said : 

"Why, what on earth have you been doing, Chromatius, 
to send away all your statues, and destroy the peculiar 
feature of your handsome villa? What induced you to do 
this?" 

"My dear young lady," answered the good-humored old 
gentleman, "do not be so angry. Of what use were those 
figures to any one ? " 

"If you thought so," replied she, "others might not. But 
tell me, what have you done with them all? " 

"Why, to tell you the truth, I have had them brought 
under the hammer." 

"What! and never let me know any thing about it? 
You know there were several pieces I would most gladly have 
purchased." 

Chromatius laughed outright, and said, with that familiar 
tone, which acquaintance with Fabiola from a child authorized 
him always to assume with her : 

" Dear me ! how your young imagination runs away," far 
too fast for my poor old tongue to keep pace with ; I meant 
not the auctioneer's hammer, but the sledge-hammer. The 
gods and goddesses have been all smashed, pulverized ! If 



you happen to want a stray leg, or a hand minus a few 
fingers, perhaps I may pick up such a thing for you. But I 
cannot promise you a face with a nose, or a skull without a 
fracture." 

Fabiola was utterly amazed, as she exclaimed : " What an 
utter barbarian you have become, my wise old judge! What 
shadow of I'eason can you give to justify so outrageous a pro- 
ceeding?" 

" Why, you see, as I have grown older, I have grown wiser ! 
and I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Jupiter and Mrs. 
Juno are no more gods than you or I ; so I summarily got rid 
of them." 

" Yes, that may be very well ; and I, though neither old 
nor wise, have been long of the same opinion. But why not 
retain them as mere works of art? " 

" Because they had been set up here, not in that capacity, 
but as divinities. They were here as impostors, under false 
pretences; and as you would turn out of your house, for an 
intruder, any bust or image found among those of your ances- 
tors, but belonging to quite another family, so did I these 
pretenders to a higher connection with me, when I found it 
false. Neither could I run a risk of their being bought for 
the continuance of the same imposture." 

"And pray, my most righteous old friend, is it not an 
imposture to continue calling your villa Ad Statuas, after not 
a single statue is left standing in it? " 

" Certainly," replied Chromatins, amused at her sharpness, 
" and you will see that I have planted palm-trees all about ; 
and, as soon as they show their heads above the evergreens, 
the villa will take the title of Ad Palmas* instead." 

"That will be a pretty name," said Fabiola, who little 
thought of the higher sense of appropriateness which it would 
contain. She, of course, was not aware that the villa was now 

* " At " or " to the palms." 



TO 



a training-school, in which many were being prepared, as 
wrestlers or gladiators used to be, in separate institutions, for 
the great combat of faith, martyrdom to death. They who 
had entered in, and they who would go out, might equally say 
they were on their way to pluck the conqueror's palm, to be 
borne by them before God's judgment-seat, in token of their 
victory over the world. Many were the palm-branches shortly 
to be gathered in that early Christian retreat. 

But we must here give the history of the demolition of 
Chromatius's statues, which forms a peculiar episode in the 
"Acts of St. Sebastian." 

When Mcostratus informed him, as prefect of Rome, of the 
release of his prisoners, and of the recovery of Tranquillinus 
from gout by baptism, Chromatins, after making every inquiry 
into the truth of the fact, sent for Sebastian, and proposed to 
become a Christian, as a means of obtaining a cure of the 
same complaint. This of course could not be ; and another 
course was proposed, which would give him new and personal 
evidence of Christianity, without risking an insincere baptism. 
Chromatins was celebrated for the immense number of idola- 
trous images which he possessed ; and was assured by Sebas- 
tian that, if he would have them all broken in pieces, he 
would at once recover. This was a hard condition, but he 
consented. His son Tiburtius, however, was furious, and pro- 
tested that if the promised result did not follow, he would 
have Sebastian and Polycarp thrown into a blazing furnace : 
not perhaps so difficult a matter for the prefect's son. 

In one day two hundred pagan statues were broken in 
pieces, including, of course, those in the villa, as well as those 
in the house at Rome. The images indeed were broken ; but 
Chromatins was not cured. Sebastian was sent for and 
sharply rebuked. But he was calm and inflexible. " I am 
sure," he said, "that all have not been destroyed. Something 
has been withheld from demolition." He proved right. Some 



If 



small objects had been treated as works of art rather than 
religious things, and, like Achan's coveted spoil,* concealed. 
They were brought forth and broken up; and Chromatins 
instantly recovered. JSTot only was he converted, but his son 
Tiburtius became also one of the most fervent of Christians ; 
and, dying in glorious martyrdom, gave his name to a cata- 
comb. He had begged to stay in Rome, to encourage and 
assist his fellow-believers, in the coming persecution, which 
his connection with the palace, his great courage and activity, 
would enable him to do. He had become, naturally, the 
great friend and frequent companion of Sebastian and Pan- 
cratius. 

After this little digression, we resume the conversation 
between Chromatins and Fabiola, who continued her last sen- 
tence by adding : 

"But do you know. Chromatins — let us sit down in this 
lovely spot, where I remember there was a beautiful Bacchus 
— that all sorts of strange reports are going round the coun- 
try, about your doings here? " 

" Dear me ! What are they ? Do tell me." 

"Why, that you have a quantity of people living with 
you whom nobody knows ; that you see no company, go out 
nowhere, and lead quite a philosophical sort of life, forming 
a most Platonic republic." 

" Highly flattered ! " interrupted Chromatins, with a smile 
and bow. 

" But that is not all," continued Fabiola. " They say you 
keep most unfashionable hours, have no amusements, and live 
most abstemiously ; in fact, almost starve yourselves." 

" But I hope they do us the justice to add, that we pay 
our way? " observed Chromatins. "They don't say, do they, 
that we have a long score run up at the baker's or grocer's? " 

" Oh, no ! " replied Fabiola, laughing. 

Jos. vii. 



" How kind of them ! " rejoined the good-humored old 
judge. " They — the whole public I mean — seem to take a 
wonderful interest in our concerns. But is it not strange, my 
dear young lady, that so long as my villa was on the free-and- 
easy system, with as much loose talk, deep drinking, occa- 
sional sallies of youthful mirth, and troublesome freaks in the 
neighborhood, as others, — I beg your pardon for alluding to 
such things ; but, in fact, so long as I and my friends were 
neither temperate nor irreproachable, nobody gave himself 
the least trouble about us ? But let a few people retire to 
live in quiet, be frugal, industrious, entirely removed from 
public affairs, and never even talk about politics or society, 
and at once there springs up a vulgar curiosity to know all 
about them, and a mean pruritus in third-rate statesmen to 
meddle with them ; and there must needs fly about flocks of 
false reports and foul suspicions about their motives and 
manner of living. Is not this a phenomenon ? " 

" It is, indeed ; but how do you account for it ? " 

" I can only do so by that faculty of little minds which 
makes them always jealous of any aims higher than their 
own ; so that, almost unconsciously, they depreciate whatever 
they feel to be better than they dare aspire to." 

" But what is really your object and your mode of life 
here, my good friend ? " 

"We spend our time in the cultivation of our higher fac- 
ulties. We rise frightfully early — 1 hardly dare tell you how 
early ; we then devote some hours to religious worship ; after 
which we occupy ourselves in a variety of ways ; some read, 
some write, some labor in the gardens ; and I assure you no 
hired workmen ever toiled harder and better than these spon- 
taneous agriculturists. We meet at different times, and sing 
beautiful songs together, all breathing virtue and purity, and 
read most improving books, and receive oral instruction from 
eloquent teachers. Our meals are indeed very temperate; 



we live entirely on vegetables ; but I have already found out 
that laughing is quite compatible with lentils, and that good 
cheer does not necessarily mean good fare." 

" Why, you are turned complete Pythagoreans. I thought 
that was quite out of date. But it must be a most economical 
system," remarked Fabiola, with a knowing look. 

"Ha! you cunning thing ! " answered the judge ; "so you 
really think that this may be a saving plan after all ? But 
it won't be, for we have taken a most desperate resolution." 

"And what on earth is that?" asked the young lady. 

" Nothing less than this. We are determined that there 
shall not be such a thing as a poor person within our reach ; 
this winter we will endeavor to clothe all the naked, and feed 
the hungry, and attend to all the sick about. All our economy 
will go for this." 

"It is indeed a very generous, though very new, idea in 
our times ; and no doubt you will be well laughed at for your 
pains, and abused on all sides. They will even say worse of 
you than they do now, if it were possible ; but it is not." 

" How so? " 

"Do not be offended if I tell you; but already they have 
gone so far as to hint, that possibly you are Christians. But 
this, I assure you, I have every where indignantly contra- 
dicted." 

Chromatins smiled, and said: "Why an indignant contra- 
diction, my dear child ? " 

"Because, to be sure, I know you and Tiburtius, and 
JSTicostratus, and that dear dumb Zoe, too well to admit, for a 
moment, that you had adopted the compound of stupidity and 
knavery called by that name." 

"Let me ask you one question. Have you taken the 
trouble of reading any Chiistian writings, by which you 
might know what is really held and done by that despised 
body? " 






"Oh, not I indeed ; I would not waste my time over them ; 
I could not have patience to learn any thing about them. I 
scorn them too much, as enemies of all intellectual progress, 
as doubtful citizens, as credulous to the last degree, and as 
sanctioning every abominable crime, ever to give myself a 
chance of a nearer acquaintance with them." 

"Well, dear Fabiola, I thought just the same about them 
once, but I have much altered my opinion of late." 

" This is indeed strange ; since, as prefect of the city, you 
must have had to punish many of these wretched people, for 
their constant transgression of the laws." 

A cloud came over the cheerful countenance of the old man, 
and a tear stood in his eye. He thought of St. Paul, who had 
once persecuted the Church of God. Fabiola saw the change, 
and was distressed. In the most affectionate manner she said 
to him, " I have said something very thoughtless, I fear, or 
stirred up recollections of what must be painful to your kind 
heart. Forgive me, dear Chromatins, and let us talk of 
something else. One purpose of my visit to you was, to ask 
you if you knew of any one going immediately to Rome. I 
have heard, from several quarters, of my father's projected 
journey, and I am anxious to write to him,* lest he repeat 
what he did before, — go without taking leave of me, to spare 
me pain." 

"Yes," replied Chromatins, "there is a young man start- 
ing early to-morrow morning. Come into the library, and 
write your letter; the bearer is probably there." 

They returned to the house, and entered an apartment on 
the ground-floor, full of book-chests. At a table in the middle 
of the room a young man was seated, transcribing a large 
volume; which, on seeing a stranger enter, he closed and put 
aside. 

* There was no post in those days, and persons wishing to send letters had 
to dispatch an express, or find some opportunity. 

178 



,^:^ 



" Torquatus," said Chromatius, addressing him, " this lady 
desires to send a letter to her father in Eome." 

"It will always give me great pleasure," replied the 
young man, "to serve the noble Fabiola, or her illustrious 
father." 

"What, do you know them?" asked the judge, rather 
surprised. 

" I had the honor, when very young, as my father had had 
before me, to be employed by the noble Fabius in Asia. Ill- 
health compelled me to leave his service." 

Several sheets of fine vellum, cut to a size, evidently for 
transcription of some book, lay on the table. One of these 
the good old man placed before the lady, with ink and a reed, 
and she wrote a few affectionate lines to her father. She 
doubled the paper, tied a thread round it, attached some wax 
to this, and impressed her seal, which she drew from an 
embroidered bag, upon the wax. Anxious, some time, to 
reward the messenger, when she could better know how, she 
took another piece of the vellum, and made on it a memoran- 
dum of his name and residence, and carefully put this into 
her bosom. After partaking of some slight refreshment, she 
mounted her car, and bid Chromatius an affectionate farewell. 
There was something touchingly paternal in his look, as 
though he felt he should never see her again. So she thought; 
but it was a very different feeling which softened his heart. 
Should she always remain thus? Must he leave her to perish 
in obstinate ignorance ? Were that generous heart, and that 
noble intellect, to grovel on in the slime of bitter paganism, 
when every feeling and every thought in them seemed formed 
of strong yet finest fibres, across which truth might weave the 
richest web ? It could not be ; and yet a thousand motives 
restrained him from an avowal, which he felt would, at 
present, only repulse her fatally from any nearer approach 
to the faith. "Farewell, my child," he exclaimed, "may you 



crch 



be blessed a hundredfold in ways which as yet you know not." 
He turned away his face, as he dropped her hand, and hastily 
withdrew. 

Fabiola too was moved by the mystery, as well as the 
tenderness, of his words ; but was startled, before reaching 
the gate, to find her chariot stopped by Torquatus. She was, 
at that moment, painfully struck by the contrast between the 
easy and rather familiar, though respectful, manner of the 
youth, and the mild gravity, mixed with cheerfulness, of the 
old ex-prefect. 

" Pardon this interruption, madam," he said, " but are you 
anxious to have this letter quickly delivered? " 

" Certainly, I am most anxious that it should reach my 
father as speedily as possible." 

" Then 1 fear I shall hardly be able to serve you. I can 
only afford to travel on foot, or by chance and cheap convey- 
ance, and I shall be some days upon the road." 

Fabiola, hesitating, said: "Would it be taking too great a 
liberty, if I should offer to defray the expenses of a more 
rapid journey ? " 

"By no means," answered Torquatus, rather eagerly, "if 
I can thereby better serve your noble house." 

Fabiola handed him a purse abundantly supplied, not 
only for his journey, but for an ample recompense. He 
received it with smiling readiness, and disappeared by a side 
alley. There was something in his manner which made a 
disagreeable impression ; she could not think he was fit com- 
pany for her dear old friend. If Chromatins had witnessed the 
transaction, he would have seen a likeness to Judas, in that 
eager clutching of the purse. Fabiola, however, was not sorry 
to have discharged, by a sum of money, once for all any 
obligation she might have contracted by making him her 
messenger. She therefore drew out her memorandum to 
destroy it as useless, when she perceived that the other side 



of the vellum was written on ; as the tvanscriber of the book, 
which she saw put by, had just commenced its continuation 
on that sheet. Only a few sentences, however, had been writ- 
ten, and she proceeded to read them. Then for the first time 
she perused the following words from a book unknown to her : 

"I say to you, love your enemies; do good to them that 
hate you, and pray for them that persecute and calumniate 
you : that you may be the children of your Father who is in 
heaven, who maketh his sun to rise on the good and the bad, 
and raineth upon the just and the unjust." * 

We may imagine the perplexity of an Indian peasant who 
has picked up in a torrent's bed a white pellucid pebble, 
rough and dull outside, but where chipped emitting sparks of 
light ; unable to decide whether he have become possessed of 
a splendid diamond, or of a worthless stone, a thing to be 
placed on a royal crown, or trodden under a beggar's feet. 
Shall he put an end to his embarrassment by at once flinging 
it away, or shall he take it to a lapidary, ask its value, and 
perhaps be laughed at to his face ? Such were the alternat- 
ing feelings of Fabiola on her way home. "Whose can these 
sentences be ? No Greek or Roman philosopher's. They are 
either very false or very true, either sublime morality or base 
degradation. Does any one practise this doctrine, or is it a 
splendid paradox ? I will trouble myself no more on the sub- 
ject. Or rather I will ask Syra about it ; it sounds very like 
one of her beautiful, but impracticable, theories. No; it is 
better not. She overpowers me by her sublime views, so 
impossible for me, though they seem easy to her. My mind 
wants rest. The shortest way is to get rid of the cause of my 
perplexity, and forget such harassing words. So here it goes 
to the winds, or to puzzle some one else, who may find it on 
the road-side. Ho! Phormio, stop the chariot, and pick up 
that piece of parchment which I have dropped." 

* Matt. T. 44. 

181 



w 



The outrider obeyed, though he had thought the sheet 
deliberately flung out. It was replaced in Fabiola's bosom : 
it was like a seal upon her heart, for that heart was calm and 
silent till she reached home. 




Clirist in the midst of His Apostles, from a painting in the Catacombs. 



w 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



TEMPTATION. 




' EEY early next morning a mule and guide 
came to the door of Chromatins' s villa. On 
it was packed a moderate pair of saddle- 
bags, the whole known property of Torqua- 
tus. Many friends were up to see him off, 
and receive from him the kiss of peace 
ere he departed. May it not prove like that of Geth- 
semani ! Some whispered a kind, soft word in his ear, 
exhorting him to be faithful to the graces he had 
received ; and he earnestly, and probably sincerely, promised 
that he would. Others, knowing his poverty, put a little 
present into his hand, and entreated him to avoid his old 
haunts and acquaintances. Polycarp, however, the director 
of the community, called him aside ; and with fervent words 
and flowing tears, conjured him to correct the irregularities, 
slight perhaps, but threatening, which had appeared in his 
conduct, repress the levity which had manifested itself in his 
bearing, and cultivate more all Christian virtues. Torquatus, 
also with tears, promised obedience, knelt down, kissed the 
good priest's hand, and obtained his blessing ; then received 
from him letters of recommendation for his journey, and a 
small sum for its moderate expenses. 

At length all was ready; the last farewell was spoken, 
the last good wish expressed; and Torquatus, mounted on 
his mule, with his guide at its bridle, proceeded slowly along 



the straight avenue which led to the gate. Long after every 
one else had re-entered the house, Chromatius was standing 
at the door, looking wistfully, with a moist eye, after him. 
It was just such a look as the Prodigal's father kept fixed on 
his departing son. 

As the villa was not on the high road, this modest quad- 
rupedal conveyance had been hired to take him across the 
country to Fundi (now Fondi), as the nearest point where he 
could reach it. There he was to find what means he could 
for prosecuting his journey. Fabiola's purse, however, had 
set him very much at ease on that score. 

The road by which he travelled was varied in its beauties. 
Sometimes it wound along the banks of the Liris, gay with 
villas and cottages. Then it plunged into a miniature 
ravine, in the skirts of the Apennines, walled in by rocks, 
matted with myrtle, aloes, and the wild vine, amidst which 
white goats shone like spots of snow ; while beside the path, 
gurgled and wriggled on, a tiny brook, that seemed to have 
worked itself into the bright conceit that it was a mountain 
torrent; so great was the bustle and noise with which it 
pushed on, and j^retended to foam, and appeared to congratu- 
late itself loudly on having achieved a waterfall by leaping 
down two stones at a time, and plunging into an abyss con- 
cealed by a wide acanthus-leaf. Then the road emerged, to 
enjoy a wide ijrospect of the vast garden of Campania, with 
the blue bay of Cajeta in the background, sj)eckled by the 
white sails of its craft, that looked at that distance like 
flocks of bright-plumed waterfowl, basking and fluttering on a 
lake. 

What were the traveller's thoughts amidst these shifting 
scenes of a new act in his life's drama? did they amuse him ? 
did they delight him? did they elevate him, or did they 
depress? His eye scarcely noted them. It had run on far 
beyond them, to the shady porticoes and noisy streets of the 



cttr 



capital. The dusty garden and the artificial fountain, the 
marble bath and the painted vault, were more beautiful in his 
eyes than fresh autumn vineyards, pure streams, purple ocean. 




Interior of a Roman Theatr 



and azure sky. He did not, of course, for a moment turn his 
thoughts towards its foul deeds and impious practices, its 
luxury, its debauchery, its profaneness, its dishonesties, its 
calumnies, its treacheries, its uncleannesses. Oh, no! what 



would he, a Christian, have again to do with these ? Some- 
times, as his mind became abstracted, it saw, in a dark nook 
of a hall in the Thermge, a table, round which moody but 
eager gamesters were casting their knuckle-bone dice; and 
he felt a quivering creep over him of an excitement long sup- 
pressed ; but a pair of mild eyes, like Polycarp's, loomed on 
him from behind the table, and aroused him. Then he caught 
himself, in fancy, seated at a maple board, with a ruby gem 




Ha 1 in the Bath^ of Ca acalla 



of Falernian wine, set in the rim of a golden goblet, and dis- 
course, ungirded by inebriety, going round with the cup; 
when the reproving countenance of Chromatins would seem 
placed opposite, repelling with a scowl the approach of either. 
He was, in fact, returning only to the innocent enjoyments 
of the imperial city, to its walks, its nmsic, its paintings, its 
magnificence, its beauty. He forgot that all these were but 
the accessories to a living and panting mass of human 
beings, whose passions they enkindled, whose evil desires 
they inflamed, whose ambition they fanned, whose resolutions 



art 



they melted, and whose minds they enervated. Poor youth I 
he thought he could walk through that fire and not be 
scorched ! Poor moth ! he imagined he could fly through 
that flame, and have his wings unscathed ! 

It was in one of his abstracted moods that he journeyed 
through a narrow overhung defile, when suddenly he found 
himself at its opening, with an inlet of the sea before him, 
and in it one solitary and motionless skiff. The sight at once 
brought to his memory a story of his childhood, true or false, 
it mattered not ; but he almost fancied its scene was before 
him. 

Once upon a time there was a bold young fisherman living 
on the coast of southern Italy. One night, stormy and dark, 
he found that his father and brothers would not venture out 
in their tight and sti'ong smack ; so he determined, in spite 
of every remonstrance, to go alone in the little cockle-shell 
attached to it. It blew a gale, but he rode it out in his tiny 
buoyant bark, till the sun rose, warm and bright, upon a placid, 
glassy sea. Overcome by fatigue and heat, he fell asleep; 
but, after some time, was awakened by a loud shouting at a 
distance. He looked round and saw the family-boat, the crew 
of which were crying aloud, and waving their hands to invite 
him back ; but they made no effort to reach him. What 
could they want? what could they mean? He seized his 
oars, and began to pull lustily towards them ; but he was 
soon amazed to find that the fishing-boat, towards which he 
had turned the prow of his skiff, appeared upon his quarter ; 
and soon, though he righted his craft, it was on the opposite 
side. Evidently he had been making a circle ; but the end 
came within its beginning, in a spiral curve, and now he was 
commencing another and a narrower one. A horrible suspi- 
cion flashed upon his mind : he threw off his tunic and pulled 
like a madman at his oars. But though he broke the circle a 
bit here and a bit there, still round he went, and every time 



nearer to the centre, in which he could see a downward funnel 
of hissing and foaming water. Then, in despair, he threw 
down his oars, and standing he ilung up his arms frantically; 
and a sea-bird screaming near, heard him cry out as loud as 
itself, " Charibdis ! " * And now the circle his boat went 
spinning round was only a few times longer than itself, and 
he cast himself flat down, and shut his ears and eyes with his 
hands, and held his breath, till he felt the w^aters gurgling 
above him, and he was whirled down into the abyss. 

" I wonder," Torquatus said to himself, " did any one ever 
perish in this way ? or is it a mere allegory ? — if so, of what ? 
Can a person be drawn cm gradually in this manner to spirit- 
ual destruction ? are my present thoughts, by any chance, an 
outer circle, which has caught me, and " 

" Fundi ! " exclaimed the muleteer, pointing to a town 
before them ; and presently the mule was sliding along the 
broad flags of its pavement. 

Torquatus looked over his letters, and drew one out for the 
town. He was taken to a little inn of the poorest class, by 
his guide, who was paid handsomely, and retired swearing 
and grumbling at the niggardliness of the traveller. He then 
inquired the way to the house of Cassianus, the school-master, 
found it, and delivered his letter. He received as kind a wel- 
come as if he had arrived at home ; joined his host in a frugal 
meal, during which he learned the master's history. 

A native of Fundi, he had started the school in Eome, 
with which we became acquainted at an early period of our 
history, and had proved eminently successful. But finding a 
persecution imminent, and his Christianity discovered, he had 
disposed of his school and retired to his small native town, 
where he was promised, after the vacation, the children of the 
principal inhabitants. In a fellow-Christian he saw nothing 
but a brother ; and as such he talked freely with him, of his 

* A whirlpool between Italy and Sicily. 



l^ast adventures and his future prospects. A strange idea 
dashed through the mind of Torquatus, that some day that 
information might be turned into money. 

It was still early when Torquatus took his leave, and, pre- 
^tending to have some business in the town, he would not 
allow his host to accompany him. He bought himself some 
more respectable apparel, went to the best inn, and ordered a 
couple of horses, with a postillion to accompany him ; for, to 
fulfill Fabiola's commission it was necessary to ride forward 
quick, change his horses at each relay, and travel through the 
night. He did so till he reached Bovilla?, on the skirts of the 
Alban hills. Here he rested, changed his travelling suit, and 
rode on gaily between the lines of tombs, which brought him 
to the gate of that city, within whose walls there was more of 
good and more of evil contained, than in any province of the 
empire. 




The Peacock, as an Emblem of the Resurrection. 




CHAPTER XIX. 
THE FALL. 

[COKQUATIJS, now elegantly attired, pro- 
ceeded at once to the house of Fabius, 
delivered his letter, answered all inquir- 
ies, and accepted, without much press- 
ing, an invitation to supper that evening. 
He then went to seek a respectable 
lodging, suited to the present state of 
his purse ; and easily found one. 
Fabius, we have said, did not accompany 
his daughter into the country, and rarely visited 
her there. The fact was, that he had no love for green fields 
or running brooks ; his tastes were for the gossip and free 
society of Eome. During the year, his daughter's presence 
was a restraint on his liberty ; but when she was gone, with 
her establishment, into Campania, his house presented scenes 
and entertained persons, that he would not have presumed to 
bring in contact with her. Men of profligate life surrounded 
his table; and deep drinking till late hours, with gambling 
and loose conversation, generally followed his sumptuous 
entertainments. 

Having invited Torquatus to sup with him, he went forth 
in search of guests to meet him. He soon picked up a batch 
of sycophants, who were loitering about his known haunts, in 
readiness for invitations. But as he was sauntering home 
from the baths of Titus, he saw two men in a small grove 



dtr 



round a temple earnestly conversing together. After a mo- 
ment's look, he advanced towards them ; but waited, at a 
small distance, for a pause in the dialogue, which was some- 
thing to this effect. 

"There is no doubt, then, about the news? " 

"None at all. It is quite certain that the people have 
risen at Nicomedia and burnt down the church, as they call it, 
of the Christians, close to, and in sight of, the palace. My 
father heard it from the emperor's secretary himself this 
morning." 

" What ever possessed the fools to go and build a temple, 
in one of the most conspicuous places of the metropolis? 
They must have known that, sooner or later, the religious 
spirit of the nation would rise against them and destroy the 
eye-sore, as every exhibition of a foreign religion must be to an 
empire." 

"To be sure, as my father says, these Christians, if they 
had any wit in them, would hide their heads, and slink into 
corners, when they are so condescendingly tolerated for a time 
by the most humane princes. But as they do not choose to 
do so, but will build temples in public instead of skulking in 
by-lanes, as they used to do, I for one am not sorry. One 
may gain some notoriety, and profit too, by hunting these 
odious people down, and destroying them if possible." 

" Well, be it so ; but to come to the purpose. It is under- 
stood between us, that when we can discover wdio are Christians 
among the rich, and not too powerful at first, there shall be a 
fair division. We w^ill aid one another. You propose bold 
and rough means; I will keep my counsel as to mine. 
But each shall reap all the profit from those whom he discov- 
ers; and his right proportion from those who are shared 
between us. Is it not so? " 

" Exactly." 

Fabius now stepped forward, with a hearty " How are you, 



Fulvius? I have not seen you for an age; come and sup 
with me to-day, I have friends engaged ; and your friend too, — 
Corvinus, I believe" (the gentleman alluded to made an 
uncouth bow), "will accompany you, I hope." 

" Thank you," replied Fulvius ; " but I fear I have an 
engagement already." 

" Nonsense, man," said the good-natured knight ; " there 
is nobody left in the city with whom you could sup, except 
myself. But has my house the plague, that you have never 
ventured into it, since you dined there with Sebastian, and 
quarrelled with him ? Or did you get struck by some magical 
charm, which has driven you away ? " 

Fulvius turned pale, and drew away Fabius to one 
side, while he said: "To tell the truth, something very 
like it." 

" I hope," answered Fabius, somewhat startled, " that the 
black witch has been playing no tricks with you ; I wish 
heartily she were out of my house. But, come," he continued 
in good humor, " I really thought you were struck by a better 
charm that evening. I have my eyes open ; I saw how your 
heart was fixed on my little cousin Agnes." 

Fulvius stared at him, with some amazement; and, after 
a pause, replied : " And if it was so, I saw that your daughter 
made up her mind, that no good should ever come out 
of it." 

" Say you so ? Then that explains your constant refusal 
to come to me again. But Fabiola is a philosopher, and 
understands nothing of such matters. I wish, indeed, she 
would give uj^ her books, and think of settling herself in life, 
instead of preventing others. But I can give you better news 
than that ; Agnes is as much attached to you as you can be 
to her." 

"Is it possible? How can you happen to know it?" 

" Why, then, to tell you what I should have told you long 



w 



since, if you had not fought so shy of me, she eonMed it to 
me that very day." 

" To you ? " 

"Yes, to me; those jewels of yours quite won her heart. 
She told me as much. I knew she could only mean you. 
Indeed, I am sure she meant you." 

Fulvius understood these words of the rich gems which 
he displayed ; while the knight spoke of the jewels which 
he imagined Agnes had received. She had proved, Fulvius 
was thinking, an easy prize, in spite of her demureness ; and 
here lay fortune and rank open before him, if he could only 
manage his game; when Fabius thus broke in uj^on his 
dream: " Come now, you have only to press your suit boldly ; 
and I tell you, you will win it, whatever Fabiola may think. 
But you have nothing to fear from her now. She and all her 
servants are absent ; her part of the house is closed, and we 
enter by the back-door to the more enjoyable part of the 
establishment." 

" I will wait on you without fail," replied Fulvius. " And 
Corvinus with you," added Fabius, as he turned away. 

We will not describe the banquet further than to say, that 
wines of rare excellence flowed so plentifully, that almost all 
the guests got, more or less, heated and excited. Fulvius, 
however, for one, kept himself cool. 

The news from the East came into discussion. The 
destruction of the church at JSTicomedia had been followed 
by incendiary fires in the imperial palace. Little doubt could 
exist that the Emperor Galerius was their author; but he 
charged them on the Christians ; and thus goaded on the 
reluctant mind of Dioclesian to become their fiercest perse- 
cutor. Every one began to see that, before many months 
were over, the imperial edict to commence the work of 
destruction would reach Rome, and find in Maximian a ready 
executor. 



The guests were generally inclined to gore the stricken 
deer; for generosity, in favor of those whom popular clamor 
hunts down, requires an amount of courage too heroic to be 
common. Even the most liberal found reasons for Christians 
being excepted from all kind consideration. One could not 
bear their mysteriousness, another was vexed at their sup- 
posed progress ; this man thought them opposed to the real 
glory of the empire, that considered them a foreign element, 
that ought to be eliminated from it. One thought their 
doctrine detestable, another their practice infamous. During 
all this debate, if it could be so called, where both sides came 
to the same conclusion, Fulvius, after having glanced from one 
to the other of the guests, had fixed his evil eye upon Tor- 
quatus. 

The youth was silent ; but his countenance, by turns, was 
pale and flushed. Wine had given him a rash courage, 
which some strong principle restrained. ISTow he clenched 
his hand, and pressed it to his breast; now he bit his lip. 
At one time he was crumbling the bread between his fingers; 
at another, he drank off, unconsciously, a cup of wine. 

" These Christians hate us, and would destroy us all if 
they could," said one. Torquatus leaned forward, opened 
his lips, but remained silent. 

"Destroy us, indeed! Did they not burn Rome, under 
Nero; and have they not just set fire to the palace in Asia, 
over the emperor's head?" asked a second. Torquatus rose 
upon his couch, stretched forth his hand, as if about to reply, 
but drew it back. 

" But what is infinitely worse is, their maintaining such 
anti-social doctrines, conniving at such frightful excesses, 
and degrading themselves to the disgusting worship of an 
ass's head," proceeded a third. Torquatus now fairly writhed ; 
and rising, had lifted his arm, when Fulvius, with a cool cal- 
culation of time and words, added, in bitter sarcasm: "Ay, 



and massacre a child, and devour his flesh and blood, at every 
assembly."* 

The arm descended on the table, with a blow that made 
every goblet and beaker dance and ring, as, in a choked voice, 
Torquatus exclaimed : " It is a lie ! a cursed lie ! " 

"How can you know that?" asked Fulvius, with his 
blandest tone and look. 

"Because," answered the other, with great excitement, "I 
am myself a Christian ; and ready to die for my faith ! " 

If the beautiful alabaster statue, with a bronze head, in 
the niche beside the table, had fallen forward, and been 
smashed on the marble pavement, it could not have caused 
a more fearful sensation than this sudden announcement. 
All were startled for a moment. Next, a long blank pause 
ensued, after which, each began to show his feelings in his 
features. Fabius looked exceedingly foolish, as if conscious 
that he had brought his guests into bad company. Calpur- 
nius puffed himself out, evidently thinking himself ill-used, by 
having a guest brought in, who might absurdly be supposed 
to know more about Christians than himself. A young man 
opened his mouth as he stared at Torquatus ; and a testy old 
gentleman was evidently hesitating, whether he should not 
knock down somebody or other, no matter whom. Corvinus 
looked at the poor Christian with the sort of grin of delight, 
half idiotic, half savage, with which a countryman might gaze 
upon the vermin that he finds in his trap in a morning. Here 
was a man ready to hand, to put on the rack, or the gridiron, 
whenever he pleased. But the look of Fulvius was worth 
them all. If ever any microscopic observer has had the 
opportunity of witnessing the expression of the spider's 
features, when, after a long fast, it sees a fly, plump with 
others' blood, approach its net, and keenly watches every 
stroke of its wing, and studies how it can best throw only 

* The heathen notion of the Blessed Eucharist. 



195 



crtr® 



w 



the first thread round it, sure that then all that gorges it shall 
be its own ; that we fancy would be the best image of his 
looks, as certainly it is of his feelings. To get hold of a 
Christian, ready to turn traitor, had long been his desire and 
study. Here, he was sure, was one, if he could only manage 
him. How did he know this ? Because he knew sufficient of 
Christians to be convinced, that no genuine one would have 
allowed himself either to drink to excess, or to boast of his 
readiness to court martyrdom. 

The company broke up ; every body slunk away from the 
discovered Christian, as from one pest-stricken. He felt alone 
and depressed, when Fulvius, who had whispered a word to 
Fabius, and to Corvinus, went up to him, and taking him by 
the hand said, courteously: "I fear, I spoke inconsiderately, 
in drawing out from you a declaration which may prove 
dangerous." 

"I fear nothing," replied Torquatus, again excited; "I 
will stand to my colors to the last." 

"Hush, hush !" broke in Fulvius, "the slaves may betray 
you. Come with me to another chamber, where we can talk 
quietly together." 

So saying, he led him into an elegant room, where Fabius 
had ordered goblets and flagons of the richest Falernian wine 
to be brought, for such as, according to Roman fashion, liked 
to enjoy a commissatio, or drinking-bout. But only Corvinus, 
engaged by Fulvius, followed. 

On a beautifully inlaid table were dice. Fulvius, after 
plying Torquatus with more liquor, negligently took them up, 
and threw them playfully down, talking in the mean time on 
indifferent subjects. "Dear me! " he kept exclaiming, "Avhat 
throws! It is well I am not playing with any one, or I 
should have been ruined. You try, Torquatus." 

Gambling, as we learnt before, had been the ruin of Tor- 
quatus : for a transaction arising out of it he was in prison 



M^ 



when Sebastian converted him. As he took the dice into his 
hand, with no intention, as he thought, of playing, Fulvius 
watched him as a lynx might its prey. Torquatus's eye 
flashed keenly, his lips quivered, his hand trembled. Fulvius 
at once recognized in all this, coupled with the poising of 
his hand, the knowing cast of the wrist, and the sharp eye to 
the value of the throw, the violence of a first temptation to 
resume a renounced vice. 

" I fear you are not a better hand than I am at this stupid 
occupation," said he indifferently; "but, I dare say, Corvinus 
here will give you a chance, if you will stake something very 
low." 

" It must be very low indeed, — merely for recreation ; for 
I have renounced gambling. Once, indeed — but no matter." 

" Come on," said Corvinus, whom Fulvius had pressed to 
his work by a look. 

They began to throw for the most trifling stakes, and Tor- 
quatus generally won. Fulvius made him drink still, from 
time to time, and he became very talkative. 

" Corvinus, Corvinus," he said at length, as if recollecting 
himself, " was not that the name that Cassianus mentioned ? " 
" Who? " asked the other, surprised. 
"Yes, it was," continued Torquatus to himself, — "the 
bully, the big brute. Were you the person," he asked, look- 
ing up to Corvinus, "who struck that nice Cliristian boy 
Pancratius ? " 

Corvinus was on the point of bursting into a rage ; but 
Fulvius checked him by a gesture, and said, with timely 
interference : 

"That Cassianus whom you mentioned is an eminent 
school-master; pray, where does he live?" 

This he knew his companion wished to ascertain; and 
thus he quieted him. Torquatus answered : 

" He lives, let me see, — no, no ; I won't turn traitor. No; 



ffi 



I am ready to be burnt, or tortured, or die for my faith ; but I 
won't betray any one, — that I won't." 

"Let me take your place, Corvinus," said Fulvius, who 
saw Torquatus's interest in the game deepening. He put 
forth sufficient skill to make his antagonist more careful and 
more intent. He threw down a somewhat larger stake. Tor- 
quatus, after a moment's pause of deliberation, matched it. 
He won it. Fulvius seemed vexed. Torquatus threw back 
both sums. Fulvius seemed to hesitate, but put down an 
equivalent, and lost again. The play was now silent : each 
won and lost; but Fulvius had steadily the advantage, and 
he was the more collected of the two. 

Once Torquatus looked up and started. He thought he 
saw the good Polycarp behind his adversary's chair. He 
rubbed his eyes, and saw it was only Corvinus staring at him. 
All his skill was now put forth. Conscience had retreated ; 
faith was wavering; grace had already departed. For the 
demon of covetousness, of rapine, of dishonesty, of reckless- 
ness, had come back, and brought with him seven spirits 
worse than himself, to that cleansed but ill-guarded soul; 
and as they entered in, all that was holy, all that was good, 
departed. 

At length, worked up, by repeated losses and draughts of 
wine, into a frenzy, after he had drawn frequently upon the 
heavy purse which Fabiola had given him, he threw the purse 
itself upon the table. Fulvius coolly opened it, emptied it, 
counted the money, and placed opposite an equal heap of gold. 
Each prepared himself for a final throw. The fatal bones fell ; 
each glanced silently upon their spots. Fulvius drew the 
money towards himself. Torquatus fell upon the table, his 
head buried and hidden within his arms. Fulvius motioned 
Corvinus out of the room. 

Torquatus beat the ground with his foot ; then moaned, 
next gnashed his teeth and growled ; then put his fingers in 



his hair, and begun to pull and tear it. A voice whispered in 
his ear, "Are you a Christian?" Which of the seven spirits 
was it ? surely the worst. 

"It is hopeless," continued the voice; "you have dis- 
graced your religion, and you have betrayed it too." 

" No, no," groaned the despairing wretch. 

"Yes; in your drunkenness you have told us all: quite 
enough to make it impossible for you ever to return to those 
you have betrayed." 

" Begone, begone," exclaimed piteously the tortured sinner. 
" They will forgive me still. God " 

" Silence ; utter not His name : you are degraded, perjured, 
hopelessly lost. You are a beggar; to-morrow you must beg 
your bread. You are an outcast, a ruined prodigal and game- 
ster. Who will look at you? will your Christian friends? 
And nevertheless you are a Christian ; you will be torn to 
pieces by some cruel death for it ; yet you will not be wor- 
shipped by them as one of their martyrs. You are a hypo- 
crite, Torquatus, and nothing more." 

"Who is it that is tormenting me?" he exclaimed, and 
looked up. Fulvius was standing with folded arms at his 
side. "And if all this be true, what is it to you? What 
have you to say more to me? " he continued. 

" Much more than you think. You have betrayed your- 
self into my power completely. I am master of your money " 
— (and he showed him Fabiola's purse) — "of your character, 
of your peace, of your life. I have only to let your fellow- 
Christians know what you have done, what you have said, 
what you have been to-night, and you dare not face them. I 
have only to let that ' bully — that big brute,' as you called 
him, but who is son of the prefect of the city, loose upon you, 
(and no one else can now restrain him after such provocation) , 
and to-morrow you will be standing before his father's tribu- 
nal to die for that religion which you have betrayed and dis- 



graced. Are you ready now, any longer, to reel and stagger 
as a drunken gambler, to represent your Christianity before 
the judgment-seat in the Forum ? " 

The fallen man had not courage to follow the prodigal in 
repentance, as he had done in sin. Hope was dead in him ; 
for he had relapsed into his capital sin, and scarcely felt 
remorse. He remained silent, till Fulvius aroused him by 
asking, "Well, have you made your choice; either to go at 
once to the Christians with to-night on your head, or to-mor- 
row to the court ? Which do you choose ? " 

Torquatus raised his eyes to him, with a stolid look, and 
faintly answered, "Neither." 

"Come, then, what will you do?" asked Fulvius, master- 
ing him with one of his falcon glances. 

"What you like," said Torquatus, "only neither of those 
things." 

Fulvius sat down beside him, and said, in a soft and 
soothing voice, ^' Now, Torquatus, listen to me ; do as I tell 
you, and all is mended. You shall have house, and food, and 
apparel, ay, and money to play with, if you will only do my 
bidding." 

" And what is that ? " 

"Rise to-morrow as usual; put on your Christian face; go 
freely among your friends ; act as if nothing had happened ; 
but answer all my questions, tell me every thing." 

Torquatus groaned, "A traitor at last! " 

"Call it what you will; that or death! Ay, death by 
inches. I hear Corvinus pacing impatiently up and down the 
court. Quick! which is it to be ? " 

" Not death ! Oh, no, any thing but that ! " 

Fulvius went out, and found his friend fuming with rage 
and wine ; he had hard work to pacify him. Corvinus had 
almost forgotten Cassianus in fresher resentments ; but all his 
former hatred had been rekindled, and he burnt for revenge. 



Fulvius promised to find out where he lived, and used this 
means to secure the suspension of any violent and immediate 
measure. 

Having sent Corvinus sulky and fretting home, he returned 
to Torquatus, whom he wished to accompany, that he might 
ascertain his lodgings. As soon as he had left the room, his 
victim had arisen from his chair, and endeavored, by walking 
up and down, to steady his senses and regain self-possession. 
But it was in vain ; his head was swimming from his inebriety, 
and his subsequent excitement. The apartment seemed to 
turn round and round, and float up and down; he was 
sick too, and his heart was beating almost audibly. Shame, 
remorse, self-contempt, hatred of his destroyers and of himself, 
the desolateness of the outcast, and the black despair of the 
reprobate, rolled like dark billows through his soul, each com- 
ing in turn uppermost. Unable to sustain himself longer on 
his feet, he threw himself on his face upon a silken couch, and 
buried his burning brow in his icy hands, and groaned. And 
still all whirled round and round him, and a constant moaning 
sounded in his ears. 

Fulvius found him in this state, and touched his shoulder 
to rouse him. Torquatus shuddered, and was convulsed ; then 
exclaimed: "Can this be Charybdis?" 




A Bove, as an Emblem of the Soul. 



crt 



■trb 




Diogenes the excavator from a painting in the Cemetery of Domitilla " 



|)art Seronir.— (Conflict. 



CHAPTER I. 
DIOGENES. 

vfj^HE scenes through which we have hitherto led our 
reader have been laid in one of those slippery truces, 
rather than peace, which often intervened between 
persecution and persecution. Already rumors of war 
have crossed our path, and its note of preparation has been 

* "Diogenes, the excavator, deposited in peace, eight days before the first of 
October." — From St. Sebastian's. Boldetti, i. 15, p. 60. 



distinctly heard. The roar of the lions near the Amphitheatre, 
which startled but dismayed not Sebastian, the reports from 
the East, the hints of Fulvius, and the threats of Corvinus, 
have brought us the same news, that before long the horrors 
of persecution will re-appear, and Christian blood will have to 
flow, in a fuller and nobler stream than had hitherto watered 
the Paradise of the New Law. The Church, ever calmly 
provident, cannot neglect the many signs of a threatened 
combat, nor the preparations necessary for meeting it. From 
the moment she earnestly begins to arm herself, we date the 
second period of our narrative. It is the commencement of 
conflict. 




JODag, after a painting in the Cemetery of Callistus. 



It was towards the end of October that a young man, not 
unknown to us, closely muffled up in his cloak, for it was 
dark and rather chill, might be seen threading his way 
through the narrow alleys of the district called the Suburra ; 
a region, the extent and exact position of which is still under 
dispute, but which lay in the immediate vicinity of the 
Forum. As vice is unfortunately too often linked with pov- 
erty, the two found a common asylum here. Pancratius did 
not seem much at home in this part of the city, and made 
several wrong turns, till at length he found the street he was 
in search of. Still, without numbers on the doors, the house 
he wanted was an unsolved problem, although not quite insol- 
uble. He looked for the neatest dwelling in the street ; and 



being particularly struck with the cleanliness and good order 
of one beyond the rest, he boldly knocked at its door. It was 
opened by an old man, whose name has already appeared in 
our pages, Diogenes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, as 
if accustomed to bear burdens, which, however, had given him 
a stoop in his gait. His hair was a perfect silver, and hung 
down at the sides of a large massive head ; his features were 
strongly marked in deep melancholy lines, and though the 




Lazarns raised from the dead. A similar representation ia foaud in the Catacomb Inter duos lavros, and in the 
Cemetery of Saints Nereus and Achilles. 

expression of his countenance was calm, it was solemnly sad. 
He looked like one who had lived much among the dead, and 
was happiest in their company. His two sons, Majus and Sev- 
erus, fine athletic youths, were with him. The first was busy 
carving, or scratching rather, a rude epitaph on an old slab 
of marble, the reverse of which still bore traces of a heathen 
sepulchral inscription, rudely effaced by its new possessor. 



U U (S 



Pancratius looked over the work in hand and smiled ; there 
was hardly a word rightly spelt, or a part of speech correct ; 
indeed, here it is : 

DE BIANOBA 
POLLECLA QVE ORDEV BENDET DE BIANOBA^ 

The other son was making a rough design, in which could be 
distinguished Jonas devoured by the whale, and Lazarus 
raised from the dead, both most conventionally drawn with 





r excavators, from a pictu 



1 the Cemetery of Callietus, 



charcoal on a board ; a sketch evidently for a more permanent 
painting elsewhere. Further, it was clear that when the 
knock came to the door, old Diogenes Avas busy fitting a new 
handle to an old pick- axe. These varied occupations in one 
family might have surprised a modern, but they did not at all 
the youthful visitor ; he well knew that the family belonged 
to the honorable and religious craft of the Fossores, or exca- 

* "From New Street. Pollecla, who sells barley in New Street." Found in 
the cemetery of Callistus. 



vators of the Christian cemeteries. Indeed, Diogenes was the 
head and director of that confraternity. In conformity with 
the assertion of an anonymous writer, contemporary with St. 
Jerome, some modern antiquarians have considered the fossor 
as forming a lesser ecclesiastical order in the primitive 
Church, like the lector, or reader. But although this opinion 
is untenable, it is extremely probable that the duties of this 
office were in the hands of persons appointed and recognized 
by ecclesiastical authority. The uniform system pursued in 
excavating, arranging, and filling up of the numerous cemete- 
ries round Rome, a system too, so complete from the begin- 
ning, as not to leave positive signs of improvement or change 
as time went on, gives us reason to conclude that these won- 
derful and venerable works were carried on under one direc- 
tion, and probably by some body associated for that purpose. 
It was not a cemetery or necropolis company, which made a 
sjDeculation of burying the dead, but rather a pious and recog- 
nized confraternity which was associated for the purpose. 

A series of interesting inscriptions, found in the cemetery 
of St. Agnes, proves that this occupation was continued in 
particular families ; grandfather, father, and sons, having car- 
ried it on in the same place.* We can thus easily understand 
the great skill and uniformity of practice observable in the 
catacombs. But the fossores had evidently a higher office, or 
even jurisdiction, in that underground world. Though the 
Church provided space for the burial of all her children, it 
was natural that some should make compensation for their 
place of sepulture, if chosen in a favorite spot, such as the 
vicinity of a martyr's tomb. These sextons had the manage- 
ment of such transactions, which are often recorded in the 
ancient cemeteries. The following inscription is preserved in 
the Capitol: 

* Given by F. Marchi in his Architecture of Subterranean Christian Rome, 
184:4 ; a work on which we will freely draw. 






EMPTV LOCVM AB ARTEMISIVM VISOMVM HOC EST 

ET PRAETIVM DATVM FOSSORI HILARO IDEST 
FOL NOOD PRAESENTIA SEVERI FOSS ET LAVRENTI 

That is— 

" This is tlie grave for two bodies, bought by Artimisius ; and the jmce was 

given to the Fossor Hilarus, — that is, purses * In the presence of Seve- 

rus the Fossor and Laurentius." 



Possibly the last named was the witness on the purchaser's 
side, and Severiis on the seller's. However this may be, we 
trust we have laid before our readers all that is known about 
the profession, as such, of Diogenes and his sons. 

We left Pancratius amused at Majus's rude attempts in 
glyptic art ; his next step was to address him. 

" Do you always execute these inscriptions yourself? " 

" Oh, no," answered the artist, looking up and smiling. 
"I do them for poor people who cannot afford to pay a better 
hand. This was a good woman who kept a small shop in the 
Vianova, and you may suppose did not become rich, especially 
as she was very honest. And yet a curious thought struck 
me as I was carving her epitaph." 

"Let me hear it, Majus." 

" It was, that perhaps some thousand years hence oi' more. 
Christians might read with reverence my scratches on the 
wall, and hear of poor old Pollecla and her barley stall with 
interest, while the inscrii:)tion of not a single emperor, who 
persecuted the Church, would be read or even known." 

" Well, I can hardly imagine that the superb mausoleums 
of sovereigns will fall to utter decay, and yet the memory of a 
market-wife descend to distant ages. But what is your reason 
for thinking thus ? " 

" Simply because I would sooner commit to the keeping of 
posterity the memory of the pious poor than that of the wicked 

* The number, unfortunately, is not intelligible, being in cipher. 



rich. And my rude record may possibly be read when 
triumphal arches have been demolished. It's dreadfully 
written though, is it not?" 




A gallery in tlie Cemetery of St. Agnee, on the Nomentan Way. 



"Never mind that; its simplicity is worth much fine writ- 
ing. What is that slab leaning against the wall?" 

"Ah, that is a beautiful inscription brought us to put up; 
you will see the writer and engraver were different people. It 
is to go to the cemetery at the Lady Agnes' s villa, on the 
Nomentan way. I believe it is in memory of a most sweet 



child, whose death is deeply felt by his virtuous parents." 
Pancratius took a light to it, and read as follows : 



AIONYCIOCNHTIIOC 
AKAV(OCeNeAAf/« 
TeUGTATCWNA 

CAriAOui^HTTFeifX/J^ 

»Ct,lTOVlKYi-ATOCKAlITAtA>N 
iTOr 



55<rV 



Inscription of ttie Cemetery of Saint Agnes. 

"The innocent boy Dionysins lieth here among the saints. Remember us in 
your holy prayers, the writer and the engraver." 

" Dear, happy child ! " continued Pancratius, when he had 
perused the inscription : " add nie the reader, to the writer and 
carver of thine epitaph, in thy holy jDrayers." 

" Amen," answered the pious family. 

But Pancratius, attracted by a certain husky sound in 
Diogenes' s voice, turned round, and saw the old man vigor- 
ously trying to cut off the end of a little wedge which he had 
driven into the top of the handle of his pick-axe, to keep it fast 
in the iron ; but every moment baffled by some defect in his 
vision, which he removed by drawing the back of his brawny 
hand across his eyes. "What is the matter, my good old 
friend ? " said the youth kindly. " Why does this epitaph of 
young Dionysius particularly affect you? " 

" It does not of itself; but it reminds me of so much that 
is past, and suggests so nmch that may be about to come, that 
I feel almost faint to think of either." 



ntr 



" What are your painful thoughts, Diogenes ? " 
"Why, do you see, it is all simple enough to take into 
one's arms a good child like Dionysius, wrapped in his cere- 
cloth, fragrant with spices, and lay him in his grave. His 
parents may weep, but his passage from sorrow to joy was 
easy and sweet. It is a very different thing, and requires a 
heart as hardened as mine by practice " (another stroke of the 
hand across the eyes) " to gather up hastily the torn flesh and 
broken limbs of such another youth, to wrap them hurriedly 
in their winding-sheet, then fold them into another sheet full 
of lime, instead of balsams, and shove them precipitately into 




An Arcof'olium, 



their tomb.* How dififerently one would wish to treat a mar- 
tyr's body ! " 

" True, Diogenes ; but a brave officer prefers the plain 
soldier's grave, on the field of battle, to the carved sarcophagus 
on the Via Api^ia. But are such scenes as you describe com- 
mon, in times of persecution ? " 

* In the cemetery of St. Agnes, pieces of lime liave been found in tombs 
forming exact moulds of different parts of the body, with the impression of a finer 
linen inside, and a coarser outside. As to spices and balsams, Tertullian observes 
that " the Arabs and Sabsans well know that the Christians annually consume 
more for their dead than the heathen world did for its gods." 



L 


j.^ ■■ ^ 


-D 


m 


" By no means uncommon, my good yomig master. I am 
sure a jdIous youth like you must have visited, on his anniver- 
sary, the tomb of Resti tutus in the cemetery of Hermes." 

" Indeed I have, and often have I been almost jealous of 
his early martyrdom. Did you bury him ? " 

"Yes; and his parents had a beautiful tomb made, the 
arcosolium of his crypt.* My father and I made it of six slabs 
of marble, hastily collected, and I engraved the inscription 
now beside it. I think I carved better than Majus there," 
added the old man, now quite cheerful. 

"That is not saying much for yourself, father," rejoined his 
son, no less smiling ; " but here is the copy of the inscription 
which you wrote," he added, drawing out a parchment from a 
number of sheets. 

" I remember it perfectly," said Pancratius, glancing over 
it, and reading it as follows, correcting the errors in orthogra- 
phy, but not those in grammar, as he read : 


-J 






AELIO FABIO RESTVTO 
FILIO PIISSIMO PARI N 
TES FECERVNT aVIVI 
XIT ANNI. S XVIII MENS 
VII INIRENE. 






r 


"To /Rlins Fabius Restitutus, their most pious son, his parents erected (this 
tomb). Who lived eighteen years and seven months. In peace." 

He continued : " What a glorious youth, to have confessed 
Christ at such an age ! " 

" No doubt," replied the old man ; " but I dare say you 
have always thought that his body reposes alone in his sepul- 
chre. Any one would think so from the inscription." 

" Certainly I have always thought so. Is it otherwise? " 

* These terms will be explained later. 

214 


a) 

-1 


C 


J m ® _ 


1 



" Yes, noble Pancratius, lie has a comrade younger than 
himself lying in the same bed. As we were closing the tomb 
of Kestitutus, the body of a boy not more than twelve or thir- 
teen years old was brought to us. Oh, I shall never forget 
the sight! He had been hung over a fire, and his head, 
trunk, and limbs nearly to the knees, were burnt to the very 
bone ; and so disfigured was he that no feature could be recog- 
nized. Poor little fellow, what he must have sufifered ! But 
why should I pity him ? Well, we were pressed for time, and 
w^e thought the youth of eighteen would not grudge room for 
his fellow-soldier of twelve, but would own him for a younger 
brother; so we laid him at ^lius Fabius's feet. But we had 
no second phial of blood to put outside, that a second martyr 
might be known to lie there ; for the fire had dried his blood 
up in his veins." * 

" What a noble boy ! If the first was older, the second 
was younger than I. What say you, Diogenes, don't you 
think it likely you may have to perform the same office for 
me one of these days? " 

" Oh, no, I hope not," said the old digger, with a return 
of his husky voice. "Do not, I entreat you, allude to such a 
possibility. Surely my own time must come sooner. How 
the old trees are spared, indeed, and the young plants cut 
down ! " 

" Come, come, my good friend, I Avon't afflict you. But I 
have almost forgotten to deliver the message I came to bring. 
It is, that to-morrow at dawn you must come to my mother's 
house, to arrange about jDreparing the cemeteries for our com- 

* On the 33d of April, 1823, this tomb was discovered unviolated. On being 
opened the bones, white, bright, and polished as ivory, were found, corresponding 
to the framework of a youth of eighteen. At his head was the phial of blood. 
With the head to his feet was the skeleton of a boy, of twelve or thirteen, black 
and charred chiefly at the head and upper parts, down to the middle of the thigh- 
bones, from which to the feet the bones gradually whitened. The two bodies, 
richly clothed, repose side by side under the altar of the Jesuits' college at 
Loreto. 



ing troubles. Our holy Pope will be there, with the priests 
of .the titles, the regionary deacons, the notaries, whose num- 
ber has been filled up, and you, the head fossor, that all may 
act in concert." 

"I will not fail, Pancratius," replied Diogenes. 

" And now," added the youth, " I have a favor to ask 
you." 

" A favor from me ? " asked the old man, surprised. 

"Tes; you will have to begin your work immediately, I 
suppose. Now, often as I have visited, for devotion, our 
sacred cemeteries, I have never studied or examined them; 
and this I should like to do with you, who know them so 
well." 

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," answered 
Diogenes, somewhat flattered by the compliment, but still 
more pleased by this love for what he so much loved. " After 
I have received my instructions, I shall go at once to the cem- 
etery of Callistus. Meet me out of the Porta Capena, half an 
hour before mid-day, and we will go on together." 

" But I shall not be alone," continued Pancratius. " Two 
youths, recently baptized, desire much to become acquainted 
with our cemeteries, which they do not yet much know ; and 
have asked me to initiate them there." 

" Any friends of yours will be always welcome. What are 
their names, that we may make no mistake ? " 

" One is Tiburtius, the son of Chromatins, the late prefect ; 
the other is a young man named Torquatus." 

Severus started a little, and said: "Are you quite sure 
about him, Pancratius ? " 

Diogenes rebuked him, saying, "That he comes to us in 
Pancratius' s company is security enough." 

" I own," interposed the youth, " that I do not know as 
much about him as about Tiburtius, who is really a gallant, 
noble fellow. Torquatus is, however, very anxious to obtain 



all inforuiation about our affairs, and seeius in earnest. What 
makes you fear, Severus? " 

" Only a trifle, indeed. But as I was going eai-ly to 
the cemetery this morning, I turned into the Baths of Anto- 
ninus." * 

"What!" interrupted Pancratius, laughing, "do you fre- 
quent such fashionable resorts? " 

"N'ot exactly," replied the honest artist; "but you are 
not perhaps aware that Cucumio the capsarms^ and his wife 
are Christians? " 

" Is it possible; where shall we find them next? " 

" Well, so it is ; and moreover they are making a tomb for 
themselves in the cemetery of Callistus ; and I had to show 
them Majus's inscription for it." 

" Here it is," said the latter, exhibiting it, as follows : 

CVCVMIO ET VICTORIA 

SE VIVOS FECERVNT 

CAPSARARIVS DE ANTON I N I AN AS.t 

" Capital ! " exclaimed Pancratius, amused at the blun- 
ders in the epitaph ; " but we are forgetting Torquatus." 

"As I entered the building, then," said Severus, "I was 
not a little surprised to find in one corner, at that early hour, 
this Torquatus in close conversation with the present pre- 
fect's son, Corvinus, the pretended cripple, who thrust him- 
self into Agnes' s house, you remember, when some charitable 
unknown person (God bless him!) gave large alms to the 
poor there. Not good company I thought, and at such an 
hour, for a Christian." 

* Better known as Caracalla's. 

f The person who had charge of the bathers' clothes, from capsa, a chest. 

X "Cucumio and Victoria made (the tomb) for themselves while living. Cap- 
sarius of the Antoniiie" (baths). Found in the cemetery of Callistus, first 
published by F. Marchi, who attributes it, erroneously, to the cemetery of Prse- 
textatus. 



w 



"True, Severus," returned Pancratius, blushing deeply; 
"but he is young as yet in the faith, and probably his old 
friends do not know of his change. We will hope for the 
best." 

The two young men offered to accompany Pancratius, who 
I'ose to leave, and see him safe through the poor and profli- 
gate neighborhood. He accepted their courtesy with pleas- 
ure, and bade the old excavator a hearty good night. 




Our Saviour blessiug tliu Bread, fnmi a picture iu the Catacombs. 



CHAPTER II. 
THE CEMETERIES. 



M. ANTONI 
VS. RESTVTV 
S . FECIT . YPO 
CEVSIBI . ET 
SVIS . FIDENTI 
BVS . IN . DOMINO. 




^ T seems to us as though we had neglected one, 
whose character and thoughts opened this 
little history, the pious Lucina. Her virtues 
were indeed of that quiet, unobtrusive nature, 
which aftbrds little scope for appearing on a 
public scene, or taking part in general affairs. 
Her house, besides being, or rather contain- 
ing, a title or parochial church, was now 
honored by being the residence of the supreme 
Pontiff. The approach of a violent persecu- 
in which the rulers of Christ's spiritual kingdom were 
to be the first sought out, as the enemies of Cajsar, 

* " Marcus Antonius Eestitutus made this subterranean for himself and his 
family, that trust in the Lord." Lately found in the cemetery of SS. Nereus and 
Achilleus. It is singular that in the inscription of the martyr Eestitutus, given in 
the last chapter, as in this, a syllable should be omitted in the name, one easily 
slurred in pronouncing it. 



tion, 
sure 




the Catacombs. 



cftra- 




The Martyr's Widow. 



rendered it necessary to transfer the residence of the Ruler of 
the Church, from his ordinary dwelling, to a securer asylum. 
For this purpose Lucina's house was chosen ; and it continued 
to be so occupied, to her great delight, in that and the follow- 
ing pontificate, when the wild beasts were ordered to be trans- 
ferred to it, that Pope Marcellus might feed them at home. 
This loathsome punishment soon caused his death. 

Lucina admitted, at forty,* into the order of deaconesses, 
found plenty of occupation in the duties of her office. The 
charge and supervision of the women in church, the care of 
the sick and poor of her own sex, the making, and keeping in 
oi'der of sacred vestments and linen for the altar, and the 
instruction of children and female converts preparing for 
baptism, as well as the attending them at that sacred rite, 
belonged to the deaconesses, and gave sufficient occupation 
in addition to domestic offices. In the exercise of both these 
classes of duties, Lucina quietly passed her life. Its main 
object seemed to be attained. Her son had offered himself to 
God; and lived ready to shed his blood for the faith. To 
watch over him, and j^ray for him, were her delight, rather 
than an additional employment. 

Early in the morning of the appointed day, the meeting 
mentioned in our last chajDter took place. It will be sufficient 
to say, that in it full instructions were given for increasing the 
collection of alms, to be employed in enlarging the cemeteries 
and bui-ying the dead, in succoring those driven to conceal- 
ment by persecution, in nourishing prisoners, and obtaining 
access to them, and finally in ransoming or rescuing the 
bodies of martyrs. A notary was named for each region, to 
collect their acts and record interesting events. The cardinals, 
or titular priests, received instructions about the administra- 
tion of sacraments, particularly of the Holy Eucharist, during 
the persecution ; and to each was intrusted one cemetery or 

* Sixty was the fall age, but admission was givea sometimes at forty. 



more, in whose subterranean church he was to perform the 
sacred mysteries. The holy Pontiff chose for himself that of 
Callistus, which made Diogenes, its chief sexton, not a little, 
but innocently, proud. 

The good old excavator seemed rather more cheery than 
otherwise, under the exciting forebodings of a coming perse- 




A Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. 



cution. No commanding officer of engineers could have given 
his orders more briskly, or more decidedly, for the defence of a 
fortified city committed to his skill to guard, than he issued 
his to the subordinate superintendents of the various ceme- 
teries round Rome, Avho met him by appointment at his own 
house, to learn the instructions of the superior assembly. The 
shadow of the sun-dial at the Porta Capena was pointing to 
mid-day, as he issued from it with his sons, and found already 
waiting the three young men. They walked in parties of two 
along the Appian road ; and at nearly two miles from the 







Under^roun-l gallery in the Catacombs, from Th. Roll€ 
de Rome." 



''s "Cataeombes 



gate,* they entered by various ways (slipping round different 
tombs that lined the road) into the same villa on the right- 
hand. Here they found all the requisites for a descent into 
the subterranean cemeteries, such as candles, lanterns, and 
the instruments for procuring light. Severus proposed that, 
as the guides and the strangers Avere in equal number, they 
should be divided into pairs ; and in the division he allotted 
Torquatus to himself. What his reason was we may easily 
conjecture. 

It would probably weary our readers to follow the whole 
conversation of the party. Diogenes not only answered all 
questions put to him, but, from time to time, gave intelligent 
little lectures, on such objects as he considered peculiarly 
attractive. But we believe we shall better interest and 
inform oitr friends, if we digest the whole matter of these into 
a more connected narrative. And besides, they will wish to 
know something of the subsequent history of those wonderful 
excavations, into which we have conducted our youthful 
pilgrims. 

The history of the early Christian cemeteries, the Cata- 
combs as they are commonly called, may be divided into three 
portions : from their beginning to the period of our narrative, 
or a few years later ; from this term to the eighth century ; 
then down to our own time, when we have reason to hope that 
a new epoch is being commenced. 

"We have generally avoided using the name of catacombs, 
because it might mislead our readers into an idea that this 
was either the original or a generic name of those early 
Christian crypts. It is not so, however: Rome might be said 
to be surrounded by a circumvallation of cemeteries, sixty or 
thereabouts in number, each of which w^as generally known 
by the name of some saint or saints, whose bodies reposed 
there. Thus we have the cemeteries of SS. ISTereus and Achil- 

* Now St. Sebastian's. The older Porta Capeym was nearly a mile within the present. 



1 



w 



leus, of St. Agnes, of St. Pancratius, of Prastextatus, Priscilla, 
Hermes, &c. Sometimes these cemeteries were known by 
the names of the places where they existed.* The cemetery 
of St. Sebastian, which was called sometimes Ccemeterium ad 
Sandmn CceciUam,\ and by other names, had among them 
that of Ad Catacumbas.t The meaning of this word is com- 
pletely unknown ; though it may be attributed to the circum- 
stance of the relics of SS. Peter and Paul having been for a 
time buried there, in a crypt still existing near the cemetery. 
This term became the name of that particular cemetery, then 
was generalized, till we familiarly call the whole system of 
these underground excavations — the Catacombs. 

Their origin was, in the last century, a subject of contro- 
versy. Following two or three vague and equivocal passages, 
some learned writers pronounced the catacombs to have been 
originally heathen excavations, made to extract sand for the 
building of the city. These sand-pits were called arenarta, 
and so occasionally are the Christian cemeteries. But a more 
scientific and minute examination, particularly made by the 
accurate F. Marchi, has completely confuted this theory. The 
entrance to the catacombs was often, as can yet be seen, from 
these sand-pits, which are themselves under ground, and no 
doubt were a convenient cover for the cemetery ; but several 
circumstances prove that they were never used for Christian 
burial, nor converted into Christian cemeteries. 

The man who wishes to get the sand out of the ground 
will keep his excavation as near as may be to the surface ; 
will have it of easiest possible access, for drawing out mate- 
rials ; and will make it as ample as is consistent with the 
safety of the roof, and the supply of what he is seeking. And 

* As Jd Nymphas, Ad Ursum jnleaium, Inter duas lauros, Ad Sextum Phi- 
Uppi, &c. 

f The cemetery at St. CaBcilia's tomb. 

\ Formed apparently of a Greek preposition and a Latin verb. 



^M 



F^ 



all this we find in the arenaria still abounding round Eome. 
But the catacombs are constructed on principles exactly con- 
trary to all these. 

The catacomb dives at once, generally by a steep flight of 
steps, below the stratum of loose and friable sand,* into that 
where it is indurated to the hardness of a tender, but consist- 
ent rock ; on the surface of which every stroke of the pick- 
axe is yet distinctly traceable. When you have reached this 
depth you are in the first story of the cemetery, for you 
descend again by stairs to the second and third below, all 
constructed on the same principle. 

A catacomb may be divided into three parts, its passages 
or streets, its chambers or squares, and its churches. The 
passages are long, narrow galleries, cut with tolerable regu- 
larity, so that the roof and floor are at right angles with the 
sides, often so narrow as scarcely to allow two persons to go 
abreast. They sometimes run quite straight to a great 
length ; but they are crossed by others, and these again by 
others, so as to form a complete labyrinth, or net-work, of 
subterranean corridors. To be lost among them would easily 
be fatal. 

But these passages are not constructed, as the name 
would imply, merely to lead to something else. They are 
themselves the catacomb or cemetery. Their walls, as well 
as the sides of the staircases, are honeycombed with graves, 
that is, with rows of excavations, large and small, of sufficient 
length to admit a human body, from a child to a full-grown 
man, laid with its side to the gallery. Sometimes there are 
as many as fourteen, sometimes as few as three or four, of 
these rows, one above the other. They are evidently so made 
to measure, that it is probable the body was lying by the 
side of the grave, while this was being dug. 

* That is, the red volcanic sand called puzzolana, so much prized for making 
Roman cement. 



irtfb 



When the corpse, wrapped up, as we heard from Diogenes, 
was laid in its narrow cell, the front was hermetically closed 
either by a marble slab, or more frequently by several broad 
tiles, put edgeways in a groove or mortice, cut for them in 
the rock, and cemented all round. The inscription was cut 
upon the marble, or scratched in the wet mortar. Thou- 
sands of the former sort have been collected, and may be seen 
in museums and churches; many of the latter have been 




A loculus, closed. 



copied and published; but by far the greater number of 
tombs are anonymous, and have no record upon them. And 
now the reader may reasonably ask, through what period 
does the interment in the catacombs range, and how are its 
limits determined. We will try to content him, as briefly as 
possible. 

There is no evidence of the Christians having ever buried 
any where, anteriorily to the construction of catacombs. Two 
principles as old as Christianity regulate this mode of burial. 
The first is, the manner of Christ's entombment. He was 
laid in a grave in a cavern, wrapped up in linen, embalmed 
with spices ; and a stone, sealed up, closed His sepulchre. 



i*U u 



As St. Paul so often proposes Him for the model of our resur- 
rection, and speaks of our being buried with Him in baptism, 
it was natural for His disciples to wish to be buried after His 
example, so as to be ready to rise with Him. 

This lying in wait for resurrection was the second thought 
that guided the formation of these cemeteries. Every expres- 
sion connected with them alluded to the rising again. The 
word to bury is unknown in Christian inscriptions. " Depos- 
ited in peace," "the deposition of ,"' are the expressions 

used : that is, the dead are but left there for a time, till called 
for again, as a pledge, or precious thing, intrusted to faithful, 
but temporary, keeping. The very name of cemetery sug- 
gests that it is only a place where many lie, as in a dor- 
mitory, slumbering for a while ; till dawn come, and the 
trumpet's sound awake them. Hence the grave is only called 
"the place," or more technically, "the small home," * of the 
dead in Christ. 

These two ideas, which are combined in the planning of 
the catacombs, were not later insertions into the Christian 
system, but must have been more vivid in its earlier times. 
They inspired abhorrence of the pagan custom of burning the 
dead ; nor have we a hint that this mode was, at any time, 
adopted by Christians. 

But ample proof is to be found in the catacombs them- 
selves, of their early origin. The style of paintings, yet 
remaining, belongs to a period of still flourishing art. Their 
symbols, and the symbolical taste itself, are characteristic of 
a very ancient period. For this peculiar taste declined, as 
time went on. Although inscriptions with dates are rare, yet 
out of ten thousand collected, and about to be published, by 
the learned and sagacious Cavalier De Eossi, about three 
hundred are found bearing consular dates, through every 
period, from the early emperors to the middle of the fourth 

* Locus, loculus. 




A COLUMBARIUM, 

Or underground sepulchre in -which the Romans deposited the urns containing the ashes 

of the dead. 



w 



century (a. d, 350). Another curious and interesting custom 
furnisiies us with dates on tombs. At the closing of the grave, 
the relations or friends, to mark it, would press into its wet 
plaster, and leave there a coin, a cameo, or engraved gem, 
sometimes even a shell or pebble ; probably that they might 
find the sepulchre again, especially where no inscription was 
left. Many of these objects continue to be found, many have 




A loculus^ open. 

been long collected. But it is not uncommon, where the coin, 
or, to speak scientifically, the medal, has fallen from its place, 
to find a mould of it left, distinct and clear in the cement, 
which equally gives its date. This is sometimes of Domitian, 
or other early emperors. 

It may be asked, wherefore this anxiety to rediscover with 
certainty the tomb ? Besides motives of natural piety, there 
is one constantly recorded on sepulchral inscriptions. In 
England, if want of space prevented the full date of a person's 
death being given, we should prefer chronicling the year, to 
the day of the month, when it occurred. It is more historical. 



c "tj® 



m 



No one caves about remembering the day on which a person 
died, without the year ; but the year without the day, is an 
important recollection. Yet while so few ancient Christian 
inscriptions supply the year of people's deaths, thousands give 
us the very day of it, on which they died, whether in the 
hopefulness of believers, or in the assurance of martyrs. 
This is easily explained. Of both classes annual commemora- 
tion had to be made, on the very day of their departure ; and 
accurate knowledge of this was necessary. Therefore it alone 
was recorded. 

In a cemetery close to the one in which we have left our 
three youths, with Diogenes and his sons,* were lately found 
inscriptions mingled together, belonging to both orders of the 
dead. One in Greek, after mentioning the "Deposition of 
Augenda on the 13th day before the Calends, or 1st of June," 
adds this simple address : 

ZHCAIC ENKli KAl 
EP<«.TA YTTEPHMooN 

"Live in the Lord, and pray for us." 

Another fragment is as follows : 

N. IVN- 

IVIBAS- 

IN PACE ET PETE 
PRO NOBIS 

" Nones of Jnne . . . Live in peace, and pray for us." 

This is a third : 

VICTORIA . REFRIGERER [ET] 
ISSPIRITVS . TVS IN BONO 

" Victoria, be refreshed, and may thy spirit be in enjoyment " (good). 
* That of SS. Nereus and Achilleus. 



This last reminds us of a most peculiar inscription found 
scratched in the mortar beside a grave in the cemetery of 
Pr^etextatus, not many yards from that of Callistus. It is 
remarkable, first, for being in Latin written with Greek 
letters; then, for containing a testimony of the Divinity of 
our Lord ; lastly, for expressing a prayer for the refreshment 
of the departed. We till up the portions of words wanting, 
from the falling out of part of the plaster. 



bene merehti soror.i boni 
vmikalnobI 

AG 

OYC ^'l 

XPIC ^*'^\^lf 

ONK PE*if 

iiro '"■£?£:/ 

T6C in* I 



" To the well-deserving sister Bon . . . The eighth day before the calends of 
Nov. Christ God Almighty refresh thy spirit in Christ." 

In spite of this digression on prayers inscribed over tombs, 
the reader will not, we trust, have forgotten, that we were 
establishing the fact, that the Christian cemeteries of Eome 
owe their origin to the earliest ages. We have now to state 
down to what period they were used. After peace was 
restored to the Church, the devotion of Christians prompted 
them to desire burial near the martyrs, and holy people of an 
earlier age. But, generally speaking, they were satisfied to 
lie under the pavement. Hence the sepulchral stones which 
are often found in the rubbish of the catacombs, and some- 
times in their places, bearing consular dates of the fourth 
century, are thicker, larger, better carved, and in a less simple 
style, than those of an earlier period, placed upon the walls. 
But before the end of that century, these monuments become 
rarer ; and interment in the catacombs ceased in the follow- 
ing, at latest. Pope Damasus, who died in 384, reverently 



shrunk, as he tells us, in his own epitaph, from intruding into 
the company of the saints. 

Restitutus, therefore, whose sepulchral tablet we gave for 
a title to our chapter, may well be considered as speaking in 
the name of the early Christians, and claiming as their own 
exclusive work and property, the thousand miles of subter- 
ranean city, with their six millions of slumbering inhabitants, 
who trust in the Lord, and await His resurrection.* 

* So r. Marchi calculates them, after diligent examination. We may men- 
tion here that, in the construction of these cemeteries, the sand extracted from 
one gallfery was removed into another already excavated. Hence many are now 
found completely filled up. 




A Lamb with a Milk Pail, emblematic of the Blesfsed Eucharist, found in the Catacombs. 



^ffi 




CHAPTER III. 

WHAT DIOGENES COULD NOT TELL 
ABOUT THE CATACOMBS. 

lOGENES lived during the first period in the 
history of the cemeteries, though near its 
close. Could he have looked into their 
future fate, he would have seen, near at 
hand, an epoch that would have gladdened 
his heart, to be followed by one that would 
have deeply afflicted him. Although, there- 
fore, tlie matter of this chapter have no direct bearing upon 
our narrative, it will serve essentially to connect it with the 
present topography of its scene. 

When peace and liberty were restored to the Church, these 
cemeteries became places of devotion, and of great resort. 
Each of them was associated with the name of one, or the 
names of several, of the more eminent martyrs buried in it ; 
and, on their anniversaries, crowds of citizens and of pilgrims 
thi-onged to their tombs, where the Divine mysteries were 
offered up, and the homily delivered in their praise. Hence 
began to be compiled the first martyrologies, or calendars of 
martyrs' days, which told the faithful whither to go. "At 
Rome, on the Salarian, or the Appian, or the Ardeatine way," 
such are the indications almost daily read in the Roman 
martyrology, now swelled out, by the additions of later ages.* 

* One or two entries from the old Kalendarium Romanum will illustrate 
this: 



V6 



An ordinary reader of the book hardly knows the impor- 
tance of these indications; for they have served to verify 
several otherwise dubious cemeteries. Another class of 
valuable writers also comes to our aid ; but before mentioning 
them, we will glance at the changes which this devotion 
produced in the cemeteries. First, commodious entrances, 
with easy staircases were made; then walls were built to 
support the crumbling galleries; and, from time to time, 
funnel-shaped apertures in the vaults were opened, to admit 
light and air. Finally, basilicas or churches were erected 
over their entrances, generally leading immediately to the 
principal tomb, then called the confession of the church. The 
pilgrim, thus, on arriving at the holy city, visited each of 
these churches, a custom yet practised ; descended below, and 
without having to grope his way about, went direct, by well- 
constructed passages, to the principal martyr's shrine, and 
so on to others, perhaps equally objects of reverence and 
devotion. 

During this period, no tomb was allowed to be opened, no 
body to be extracted. Through apertures made into the 
grave, handkerchiefs or scarfs, called brandea, were intro- 
duced, to touch the martyr's relics ; and these were carried to 
distant countries, to be held in equal reverence. No wonder 

" iii. Non. Mart. Lucii in Callisti. 

vi. Id. Dec. Eutichiani in Callisti. 

xiii. Kal. Feb. Fabiani in Callisti, et Sebastiani ad Catacumbas. 

viii. Id. Aug. Systi in Callisti." 

We have extracted these entries of depositions in the cemetery of Callistns, 
because, while actually writing this chapter, we haye received news of the dis- 
covery of the tombs and lapidary inscriptions of every one of these Popes, together 
with those of St. Antherus, in one chapel of the newly-ascertained cemetery of 
Callistus, with an inscription in verse by St. Damasus : 

" Prid. Kal. Jan. Sylvestri in Priscillae. 
iv. Id. (Aug.) Laurentii in Tiburtina. 
iii. Kal. Dec. Saturnini in Thrasonis." 

Published by Euinart, — Acta, tom. iii. 



g-ap 



^:i 



that St. Ambrose, St. Gaudentius, and other bishops, should 
have found it so difficult to obtain bodies, or large relics of 
martyrs for their churches. Another sort of relics consisted 
of what was called familiarly the oil of a martyr, that is, the 
oil, often mixed with balsam, which burned in a lamp beside 
his tomb. Often a round stone pillar, three feet or so in 
height, and scooped out at the top, stands beside a monument ; 
probably to hold the lamp, or serve for the distribution of its 
contents. St. Gregory the Great wrote to Queen Theodelinda, 
that he sent her a collection of the oils of the popes who were 
martyrs. The list which accompanied them was copied by 
Mabillon in the treasury of Monza, and republished by 
Ruinart,* It exists there yet, together with the very phials 
containing them, sealed up in metal tubes. 

This jealousy of disturbing the saints, is displayed most 
beautifully in an incident, related by St. Gregory of Tours. 
Among the martyrs most honored in the ancient Roman 
Church were Sts. Chrysanthus and Daria. Their tombs 
became so celebrated for cures, that their fellow-Christians 
built (that is excavated) over them a chamber, with a vault 
of beautiful workmanship, where crowds of worshippers 
assembled. This was discovered by the heathens, and the 
emperor closed them in, walled up the entrance, and from 
above, probably through the hmimare, or ventilating shaft, 
showered down earth and stones, and buried the congregation 
alive, as the two holy martyrs had been before them. The 
place was unknown at the peace of the Church, till discovered by 
Divine manifestation. But instead of being permitted to enter 
again into this hallowed spot, pilgrims were merely allowed 
to look at it, through a window opened in the wall, so as to 
see, not only the tombs of the martyrs, but also the bodies of 
those who had been buried alive at their shrines. And as the 
cruel massacre had taken place while preparations were being 

* Acta Martyr, torn. iii. 

341 



made for oblation of the holy Eucharist, there were still to be 
seen lying about, the silver cruets in which the wine was 
brought for that spotless sacrifice.* 

It is clear that pilgrims resorting to Rome would want a 
hand-book to the cemeteries, that they might know what they 
had to visit. It is likewise but natural that, on their return 
home, they may have sought to edify their less fortunate 
neighbors, by giving an account of what they had seen. 
Accordingly there exists, no less fortunately for us than for 
their untravelled neighbors, several records of this character. 
The first place, among these, is held by catalogues compiled 
in the fourth century; one, of the places of sepulture of 
Eoman pontiffs, the other of martyrs. t After these come 
three distinct guides to the catacombs ; the more interesting 
because they take different rounds, yet agree marvellously in 
their account. 

To show the value of these documents, and describe the 
changes which took place in the catacombs during the second 
period of their history, we will give a brief account of one dis- 
covery, in the cemetery where we have left our little party. 
Among the rubbish near the entrance of a catacomb, the 
name of which was yet doubtful, and which had been taken 
for that of Prastextatus, was found a fragment of a slab of 
marble which had been broken across 'obliquely, from left to 
right, with the following letters : 

I 




The young Cavalier de Rossi at once declared that this 
was part of the sepulchral inscription of the holy Pope Corne- 

* S. Greg. Turon, de Gloria Mart. lib. i. c. 28, ap. Marclii, p. 81. One would 
apply St. Damasus's epigram on these martyrs to this occurrence, Carm. xxviii. 
t Published by Bucherius in 1634. 
X (Of) . . nelius martyr. 



lius; that probably his tomb would be found below, in a 
distinguished form; and that as all the itineraries above 
mentioned concurred in placing it in the cemetery of Callistus, 
this, and not the one at St. Sebastian's, a few hundred yards 
off, must claim the honor of that name. He went further, 
and foretold that as these works pronounced St. Cyprian to 
be buried near Cornelius, there would be found something at 
the tomb which would account for that idea, for it was known 
that his body rested in Africa. It was not long before every 
prediction was verified. The great staircase discovered * was 
found to lead at once to a wider space, carefully secured by 
brick- work of the time of peace, and provided with light and 
air from above. On the left was a tomb, cut like others in 
the rock, without any exterior arch over it. It was, however, 
large and ample ; and except one, very high above it, there 
were no other graves below, or over, or at the sides. The 
remaining portion of the slab was found within it ; the first 
piece was brought from the Kircherian Museum, where it had 
been deposited, and exactly fitted to it ; and both covered the 

tomb, thus: 

t 




Below, reaching from the lower edge of this stone to the 
ground was a marble slab covered with an inscription, of 
which only the left-hand end remains, the rest being broken 
off and lost. Above the tomb was another slab let into the 
sand-stone, of which the right-hand end exists, and a few 
more fragments have been recovered in the rubbish ; not 
enough to make out the lines, but sufficient to show it was an 
inscription in verse, by Pope Damasus. How is this author- 

* The crypt, we believe, was discovered before the stairs, 
f Of Cornelius Martyr Bishop. 



ship traceable? Very easily. Not only do we know that 
this holy pope, already mentioned, took pleasure in putting 
verses, which he loved to write, on the tombs of martyrs, * but 
the number of inscriptions of his yet extant exhibit a particu- 
lar and very elegant form of letters, known among antiquari- 




Saint Cornelius and Saint Cyprian, from Be Rossi's "Roma Sotteranea," 



ans by the name of "Damasian." The fragments of this 
marble bear portions of verses, in this character. 

To proceed : on the wall, right of the tomb, and on the 
same plane, were painted two full-length figures in sacerdotal 
garments, with glories round their heads, evidently of Byzan- 

* These form the great bulk of his extant works in verse. 



cnfei' 



tine work of the seventh century. Down the wall, by the left 
side of each, letter below letter, were their names ; some let- 
ters were effaced, which we supply in italics as follow : 

SI* CORivEL' PP SCI* PRMN^'* 

We here see how a foreigner, reading these two inscrip- 
tions, with the portraits, and knowing that the Church com- 
memorates the two martyrs on the same day, might easily 
be led to suppose that they were here deposited together. 
Finally at the right hand of the tomb stands a truncated 
column, about three feet high, concave at the top, as before 
described ; and as a confirnuxtion of the use to which we said 
it might be put, St. Gregory has, in his list of oils sent to the 
Lombard Queen, " Oleum S. Cornelii," the oil of St. Cornelius. 

We see, then, how, during the second period, new orna- 
ments, as well as greater conveniences, were added to the 
primitively simple forms of the cemeteries. But we must not, 
on that account, imagine that we are in any danger of mistak- 
ing these later embellishments for the productions of the early 
ages. The difference is so immense that we might as easily 
blunder by taking a Rubens for a Beato Angelico, as by con- 
sidering a Byzantine figure to be a production of the two first 
centuries. 

* " (The picture) of St. Cornelius Pope, of St. Cyprian." On the other side, 
on a narrow wall projecting at a riglit angle, are two more similar portraits ; but 
only one name can be deciphered, that of St. Sixtus, or, as he is there and else- 
where called, Sustus. On the paintings of the principal saints may still be read, 
scratched in the mortar, in characters of the serenth century, the names of visi- 
tors to the tomb. Those of two priests are thus — 

v:<LEO PRB I ANNIS PRB. 

It may be interesting to add the entry in the Eoman calendar. 

"xviii. Kal. Oct. Cypriani Africaj: Komas celebratur in Callisti." "Sept. 14. 
(The deposition) of Cyprian in Africa: at Rome it is kept in (the cemetery) of 
Callistus." 



w 



We come now to the third period of these holy cemeteries, 
the sad one of their desolation. When the Lombards, and 
later the Saracens, began to devastate the neighborhood of 
Eome, and the catacombs were exposed to desecration, the 
popes extracted the bodies of the most illustrious martyrs, 
and placed them in the basilicas of the city. This went on 
till the eighth or ninth century ; when we still read of repairs 
made in the cemeteries by the sovereign j3ontiffs. The cata- 
combs ceased to be so much places of devotion ; and the 
churches, which stood over their entrances, were destroyed, or 
fell to decay. Only those remained which were fortified, and 
could be defended. Such are the extramural basilicas of St. 
Paul on the Ostian way, of St. Sebastian on the Appian, 
St. Laurence on the Tiburtine, or in the Ager Veranus, 
St. Agnes on the Nomentan road, St. Pancratius on the 
Aurelian, and, greatest of all, St. Peter's on the Vatican. 
The first and last had separate hirghs or cities round them ; 
and the traveller can still trace remains of strong walls 
round some of the others. 

Strange it is, however, that the young antiquarian, whom 
we have frequently named with honor, should have re-discov- 
ered two of the basilicas over the entrance to the cemetery of 
Callistus, almost entire; the one being a stable and bake- 
house, the other a wine-store. One is, most probably, that 
built by Pope Damasus, so often mentioned. The earth 
washed down, through air-holes, the spoliation practised 
during ages, by persons entering from vineyards through 
unguarded entrances, the mere wasting action of time and 
Aveather, have left us but a wreck of the ancient catacombs. 
Still there is much to be thankful for. Enough remains to 
verify the records left us in better times, and these serve to 
guide us to the reconstruction of our ruins. The present 
Pontiff* has done more in a few years for these sacred places, 
* Pope Pius IX.— Pub. 



w 



which he has appointed have done wonders. With very 
limited means, they are going systematically to work, finish- 
ing as they advance. Nothing is taken from the spot where 
it is found ; but every thing is restored, as far as possible, to 
its original state. Accurate tracings are made of all the 
paintings, and plans of every part explored. To secure these 
good results, the Pope has, from his own resources, bought 
vineyards and fields, especially at Tor Marancia, where the 
cemetery of SS. Nereus and Achilleus is situated ; and we 
believe also over that of Callistus. The French emperor too 
has sent to Rome, artists, who have produced a most magnifi- 
cent work, perhaps somewhat overdone, upon the catacombs : 
a truly imperial undertaking. 

It is time, however, for us to rejoin our party below, and 
finish our inspection of these marvellous cities of departed 
saints, under the guidance of our friends the excavators. 




The Tomb of Cornelias. 



CHAPTER IV. 




WHAT DIOGENES DID TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS. 

ILL that we have told our readers of the first 
period of the history of subterranean Rome, as 
ecclesiastical antiquarians love to call the 
catacombs, has no doubt been better related 
by Diogenes to his youthful hearers, as, taper 
in hand, they have been slowly walking through 
a long straight gallery, crossed, indeed, by many others, but 
adhered to faithfully; with sundry pauses, and, of course, 
lectures, embodying what we have put together in our prosaic 
second chapter. 

At length Diogenes turned to the right, and Torquatus 
looked around him anxiously. 

" I wonder," he said, "how many turns we have passed by, 
before leaving this main gallery ? " 

"A great many," answered Severus, drily. 
" How many do you think, ten or twenty?" 
" Full that, I fancy ; for I never have counted them." 
Torquatus had, however; but wished to make sure. He 
continued, still pausing : 

"How do you distinguish the right turn, then? Oh, 
what is this?" and he pretended to examine a small niche 
in the corner. But Severus kept too sharp a look-out, and 
saw thas he was making a mark in the sand. 

"Come, come along," he said, "or we shall lose sight of 
the rest, and not see which way they turn. That little niche 



is to hold a lamp ; you will find one at each angle. As to 
ourselves, we know every alley and turn here below, as you do 
those of the city above." 

Torquatus was somewhat reassured by this account of the 
lamps— those little earthen ones, evidently made on purpose 




A Lamp with a representation of the Good Shepherd, fonnd at Ostiom prior to the third century. 
From Boiler's " Catacombes." 

for the catacombs, of which so many are there found. But 
not content, he kept as good count as he could of the turns, as 
they went ; and now with one excuse, and now with another, 
he constantly stopped, and scrutinized particular spots and 
corners. But Severus had a lynx's eye upon him, and allowed 
nothing to escape his attention. 

At last they entered a doorway, and found themselves in a 
square chamber, richly adorned with paintings. 

" What do you call this? " asked Tiburtius. 



" It is one of the many crypts, or cuMcula* which abound 
in our cemeteries," answered Diogenes; "sometimes they are 
merely family sepultures, but generally they contain the tomb 
of some martyr, on whose anniversary we meet here. See 
that tomb opposite us, which, though flush with the wall, is 




Cubiculum or Crypt, as found in tlie Catacombs. 



arched over. That becomes, on such an occasion, the altar 
whereon the Divine mysteries are celebrated. You are of 
course aware of the custom of so performing them." 

" Perhaps my two friends," interposed Pancratius, " so 
recently baptized, may not have heard it ; but I know it well. 
It is surely one of the glorious privileges of martyrdom, to 
have the Lord's sacred Body and precious Blood offered upon 



* Chambers. 



one's ashes, and to repose thus under the very feet of God.* 
But let us see well the paintings all over this crypt." 

"It is on account of them that I brought you into this 
chamber, in preference to so many others in the cemetery. 








The Last Supper. Prom a picture in tlie Cemetery of St. Callistus. 

It is one of the most ancient, and contains a most complete 
series of pictures, from the remotest times down to some of 
my son's doing." 

" Well, then, Diogenes, explain them systematically to my 

* " Sic venerarier ossa libet, 
Ossibus altar et impositum ; 
nia Dei sita sub pedibus, 
Prospicit haBC, populosqne suos 
Carmine propitiata fovet." 

Prudentius, nepi aTB<p. iii. 43. 

" With her relics gathered here, 
The altar o'er them placed revere. 
She ie7ieafh God's feet reposes, 
Nor to us her soft eye closes, 
Nor her gracious ear." 

The idea that the martyr lies "beneath the feet of God" is an allusion to theEeal 
Presence in the Blessed Eucharist. 



cfrr® 



friends," said Pancratius. " I think I know most of them, 
but not all; and I shall be glad to hear you describe 
them." 

"I am no scholar," replied the old man, modestly, "but 
when one has lived sixty years, man and boy, among things, 
one gets to know them better than others, because one loves 
them more. All here have been fully initiated, I suppose?" 
he added, with a pause. 

" All," answered Tiburtius, " though not so fully instructed 




A Ceiling in the Catacombs, From De Rosi 



'■Roma Sotteranea.'' 



as converts ordinarily are. Torquatus and myself have 
received the sacred gift." 

"Enough," resumed the excavator. "The ceiling is the 
oldest part of the painting, as is natural ; for that was done 
when the crypt was excavated, whereas the walls were deco- 
rated, as tombs were hollowed out. You see the ceiling has a 
sort of trellis-work painted over it, with grapes, to represent 
perhaps our true Vine, of which we are the branches. There 
you see Orpheus sitting down, and playing sweet music, not 
only to his own flock, but to the wild beasts of the desert, 
which stand charmed around him." 

" Why, that is a heathen picture altogether," interrupted 



Torquatus, with pettishness, and some sarcasm ; " what has it 
to do with Christianity? " 

" It is an allegory, Torquatus," replied Pancratius, gently, 
"and a favorite one. The use of Gentile images, when in 
themselves harmless, has been permitted. You see masks. 




Our Lord under the Symbol of Orpheus. Prom a picture in tlie Cemetery of DomitiliuB. 

for instance, and other pagan ornaments in this ceiling, and 
they belong generally to a very ancient period. And so our 
Lord was represented under the symbol of Orpheus, to conceal 
His sacred representation from Gentile blasphemy and sacri- 
lege. Look, now, in that arch ; you have a more recent repre- 
sentation of the same subject." 

" I see," said Torquatus, " a shepherd with a sheep over 
his shoulders — the Good Shepherd ; that I can understand ; 
I remember the parable." 



.Sfe 



"But why is this subject such a favorite one ? " asked 
Tiburtius; " I have observed it in other cemeteries." 

" If you will look over the arcosolium,'^ * answered Severus, 
"you will see a fuller representation of the scene. But I think 
we had better first continue what we have begun, and finish 
the ceiling. You see that figure on the right? " 




The Good Shepherd. A woman prajang. From the arcogolium of the Cemetery of Sts. Nereus and Achilleus- 

" Yes," replied Tiburtius ; "it is that of a man apparently 
in a chest, with a dove flying towards him. Is that meant to 
represent the Deluge? " 

"It is," said Severus, "as the emblem of regeneration by 
water and the Holy Spirit ; and of the salvation of the world. 
Such is our beginning ; and here is our end : Jonas thrown 
out of the boat, and swallowed by the whale ; and then sitting 
in enjoyment under his gourd. The resurrection with our 
Lord, and eternal rest as its fruit." 

" How natural is this representation in such a place ! " 
observed Pancratius, pointing to the other side ; " and here 
we have another type of the same consoling doctrine." 

"Where?" asked Torquatus, languidly; "I see nothing 
but a figure bandaged all round, and standing up, like a huge 

* The arched tombs were so called. A homely illustration would be an 
arched fireplace, walled up to the height of three feet. The paintings would be 
inside, above the wall. 




p n p 



infant in a small temple; and another person opposite 
to it." 

"Exactly," said Severus; "that is the way we always 
represent the resurrection of Lazarus. Here look, is a touch- 




A Ceiling in the Catacombs. In the Cemetery of Domitilla, third century. 

ing expression of the hopes of our fathers in persecution: 
The three Babylonian children in the fiery furnace." 

"Well, now, I think," said Torquatus, "we may come to 
the arcosoKum, and finish this room. What are these pictures 
round it ? " 

" If you look at the left side, you see the multiplication 
of the loaves and fishes. The fish * is, you know, the symbol 
of Christ." 

* The word is usually given in Greek, and Christ is familiarly called the 
f%fli;f, ichthys. 



w 



"Why so?" asked Torquatus, rather impatiently. Sevevus 
turned to Pancratius, as the better scholar, to answer. 

"There are two opinions about its origin," said the youth, 
readily; "one finds the meaning in the word itself; its letters 
forming the beginning of words, so as to mean ' Jesus Christ, 
Son of God, Saviour.'* Another puts it in the symbol itself; 
that as fish are born and live in the water, so is the Christian 
born of water, and buried with Christ in it, by baptism.! 
Hence, as we came along, we saw the figure of a fish carved 




The fishes and anchor. 



The fishes and doves. 



on tombs, or its name engraven on them. Now go on, 
Severus." 

" Then the union of the bread and the fish in one multi23li- 
cation shows us how, in the Eucharist, Christ becomes the 
food of all.t Opposite, is Moses striking the rock, from which 
all drank, and which is Christ, our drink as well as our 
food." § 

* This is the interpretation of St. Optatus {adv. Farm. lib. iii.) and St. 
Augustine {de G. D. lib. xviii. c. 23). 

f This is Teriullian's explanation {de Baptismo, lib. ii. c. 3). 

\ In the same cemetery is another interesting painting. On a table lie a loaf 
and a fish ; a priest is stretching his hands over them ; and opposite is a female 
figure in adoration. The priest is the same as, in a picture close by, is repre- 
sented administering baptism. In another chamber just cleared out, are very 
ancient decorations, such as masks, &c., and fishes bearing baskets of bread and 
flasks of wine, on their backs as they swim. 

§ The type of the figure is that of St. Peter, as he is represented to us in the 
cemeteries. On a glass, bearing a picture of this scene, the person striking the 
rock has written over his head PETEVS. 



m 



®" 



□ 



" Now, at last," said Torquatus, " we are come to the Good 

Shepherd." 

" Yes," continued Severus, " you see Him in the centre of 
the arcosolium, in His simple tunic and leggings, with a sheep 
upon His shoulders, the recovered wanderer from the flock. 
Two more are standing at His sides ; the truant ram on His 
right, the gentle ewe upon His left ; the penitent in the post 
of honor. On each side too, you see a person evidently sent 
by Him to preach. Both are leaning forward, and Addressing 
sheep not of the fold. One on either side is apparently giving 
no heed to their words, but browsing quietly on, while one is 
turning up its eyes and head, looking and listening with eager 
attention. Rain is falling copiously on them; that is the 
grace of God. It is not difficult to interpret this picture." 

" But what makes this emblem such a particular favorite ? " 
again pressed Tiburtius. 

" We consider this, and similar paintings, to belong chiefly 
to the time when the Novatian heresy so much plagued the 
Church," answered Severus. 

"And pray what heresy is that? " asked Torquatus, care- 
lessly ; for he thought he was losing time. 

"It was, and indeed is, the heresy," answered Pancratius, 
" that teaches, that there are sins which the Church has not 
power to forgive ; which are too great for God to pardon." 

Pancratius was not aware of the eff"ect of his words ; but 
Severus, who never took off his eye from Torquatus, saw the 
blood come and go violently in his countenance. 

" Is that a heresy? " asked the traitor, confused. 

" Surely a dreadful one," replied Pancratius, " to limit the 
mercy and forgiveness of Him, who came to call not the just, 
but sinners to repentance. The Catholic Church has always 
held, that a sinner, however dark the dye, however huge the 
mass, of his crimes, on truly repenting, may receive forgive- 
ness, through the penitential remedy left in her hands. And, 



w 



therefore, she has always so much loved this type of the Good 
Shepherd, ready to run into the wilderness, to bring back a 
lost sheep." 

"But suppose," said Torquatus, evidently moved, "that 
one who had become a Christian, and received the sacred Gift, 
were to fall away, and plunge into vice, and — and" — (his 
voice faltered) — " almost betray his brethren, would not the 
Church reject such a one from hope?" 




The Blessed Virgin and the Magi. Prom a pictare in the Cemetery of Callistus. 

" ISTo, no," answered the youth; "these are the very crimes, 
which the Novatians insult the Catholics for admitting to 
pardon. The Church is a mother, with her arms ever open to 
re-embrace her erring children." 

There was a tear trembling in Torquatus' s eye ; his lips 
quivered with the confession of his guilt, which ascended to 
them for a moment ; but as if a black poisonous drop rose up 
his throat with it and choked him, he changed in a moment 
to a hard, obstinate look, bit his lip, and said, with an effort at 
coolness : " It is certainly a consoling doctrine for those that 
need it." 



dtr 



Severus alone observed that a moment of grace had been 
forfeited, and that some despairing thought had quenched a 
flash of hope, in that man's heart. Diogenes and Majus, who 
had been absent looking at a new place for opening a gallery 
near, now returned. Torquatus addressed the old master- 
digger : 

"We have now seen the galleries and the chambers; I am 
anxious to visit the church in which we shall have to 
assemble." 

The unconscious excavator was going to lead the way, 
when the inexorable artist interposed. 

"I think, father, it is too late for to-day; you know we 
have got our work to do. These young friends will excuse us, 
especially as they will see the church in good time, and in 
better order also, as the holy Pontiff intends to officiate in it." 

They assented ; and when they arrived at the point where 
they had turned off from the first straight gallery to visit the 
ornamented chamber, Diogenes stopped the party, turned a 
few steps along an opposite passage, and said : 

"If you pursue this corridor, and turn to the right, you 
come to the church. I have merely brought you here to show 
you an arcosolivm, with a beautiful painting. You here see 
the Virgin Mother holding her Divine Infant in her arms, 
while the wise Easterns, here represented as four, though 
generally we only reckon three, are adoring Him."* 

All admired the painting; but poor Severus was much 
chagrined at seeing how his good father had unwittingly 
supplied the information desired by Torquatus, and had fur- 
nished him with a sure clue to the desired turn, by calling his 
attention to the tomb close round it, distinguishable by so 
remarkable a picture. 

* There are several repetitions of this painting. One has been lately found, 
if we remember right, in the cemetery of Nereus and Achilleus. It is long anterior 
to the Council of Chalcedon, whence this mode of representing our Lord is usually 
dated. It is given in our title-page. 



When their company was departed, he told all that he had 
observed to his brother, remarking, " That man will give us 
trouble yet: I strongly suspect him." 

In a short time they had removed every mark which Tor- 
quatus had made at the turnings. But this was no security 
against his reckonings ; and they determined to prepare for 
changing the road, by blocking up the present one, and turn- 
ing off at another point. For this purpose they had the sand 
of new excavations brought to the ends of a gallery which 
crossed the main avenue, where this was low, and left it 
heaped up there till the faithful could be instructed of the 
intended change. 




Moses striking the rock, from the Cemetery of "Inter duos LauroSo" 



^ 



CHAPTER V. 
ABOVE GROUND. 

f^^O recover our reader from his long subterranean 
excursion, we must take him with us on another 
visit, to the "happy Campania," or, " Camp any the 
blest," as an old writer might have called it. 
There we left Fabiola perplexed by some sentences which she 
had found. They came to her like a letter from another 
world ; she hardly knew of what character. She wished to 
learn more about them, but she hardly durst inquire. Many 
visitors called the next day, and for several days after, and 
she often thought of putting before some or other of them 
the mysterious sentences, but she could not bring herself to 
do it. 

A lady, whose life was like her own, philosophically cor- 
rect, and coldly virtuous, came; and they talked together 
over the fashionable opinions of the day. She took out her 
vellum page to puzzle her; but she shrank from submitting 
it to her : it felt profane to do so. A learned man, well read 
in all branches of science and literature, paid her a long visit, 
and spoke very charmingly on the sublimer views of the older 
schools. She was tempted to consult Mm about her discov- 
ery ; but it seemed to contain something higher than he could 
comprehend. It was strange that, after all, when wisdom or 
consolation was to be sought, the noble and haughty Eoman 
lady should turn instinctively to her Christian slave. And so 
it was now. The first moment they were alone, after several 



"D. 



®" 



days of company and visits, Fabiola produced her parchment, 
and placed it before Syra. There passed over her counte- 
nance an emotion not observable to her mistress; but she 
was perfectly calm, as she looked up from reading. 

"That writing," said her mistress, "I got at Chromatius's 
villa, on the back of a note, probably by mistake. I cannot 
drive it out of my mind, Avhich is quite perplexed by it." 

"Why should it be so, my noble lady? Its sense seems 
plain enough." 

"Yes; and that very plainness gives me trouble. My 
natural feelings revolt against this sentiment : I fancy I ought 
to despise a man who does not resent an injury, and return 
hatred for hatred. To forgive at most would be much ; but to 
do good in return for evil, seems to me an unnatural exaction 
from human nature. Now, while I feel all this, I am con- 
scious that I have been brought to esteem you, for conduct 
exactly the revei'se of what I am naturally impelled to 
expect." 

" Oh, do not talk of me, my dear mistress ; but look at the 
simple principle ; you honor it in others, too. Do you despise, 
or do you respect, Aristides, for obliging a boorish enemy, by 
writing, when asked, his own name on the shell that voted 
his banishment? Do you, as a Koman lady, contemn or 
honor the name of Coriolanus, for his generous forbearance to 
your city ? " 

"I venerate both, most truly, Syra; but then you know 
those were heroes, and not every-day men." 

"And why should we not all be heroes?" asked Syra, 
laughing. 

"Bless me, child! what a world we should live in, if we 
were. It is very pleasant reading about the feats of such 
wonderful people ; but one would be very sorry to see them 
performed by common men, every day." 

"Why so? " j)ressed the servant. 



o 



"Why so? who would hke to find a baby she was nursing, 
playing with, or strangling, serpents in the cradle ? I should 
be very sorry to have a gentleman, whom I invited to dinner, 
telling me coolly he had that morning killed a minotaur, or 
strangled a hydra; or to have a friend offering to send the 
Tiber through my stables, to cleanse them. Preserve us from 
a generation of heroes, say I." And Fabiola laughed heartily 
at the conceit. In the same good humoi- Syra continued : 

" But suppose we had the misfortune to live in a country 
where such monsters existed, centaurs and minotaurs, hydras 
and dragons. Would it not be better that common men 
should be heroes enough to conquer them, than that we 
should have to send off to the other side of the world for a 
Theseus, or a Hercules, to destroy them? In fact, in that 
case, a man would be no more a hero if he fought them, than 
a lion-slayer is in my country." 

" Quite true, Syra ; but I do not see the application of your 
idea." 

"It is this: anger, hatred, revenge, ambition, avarice, are 
to my mind as complete monsters as serpents or dragons ; and 
they attack common men as much as great ones. Why 
should not I try to be as able to conquer them as Aristides, or 
Coriolanus, or Cincinnatus ? Why leave it to heroes only, to 
do what we can do as well? " 

" And do you really hold this as a common moral princi- 
ple? If so, I fear you will soar too high." 

"No, dear lady. You were startled when I ventured to 
maintain that inward and unseen virtue was as necessary as 
the outward and visible: I fear I must surprise you still 
more." 

" Go on, and do not fear to tell me all." 

" Well, then, the principle of that system which I profess 
is this : that we must treat and practise, as every-day and 
common virtue, nay, as simple duty, whatever any other code, 



the purest and sublimest that may be, considers heroic, and 
proof of transcendent virtue." 

" That is indeed a sublime standard to form, of moral ele- 
vation ; but mark the difference between the two cases. The 
hero is supported by the praises of the world : his act is 
recorded and transmitted to posterity, when he checks his 
passions, and performs a sublime action. But who sees, cares 
for, or shall requite, the poor obscure wretch, who in humble 
secrecy imitates his conduct? " 

Syra, with solemn, reverential look and gesture, raised her 
eyes and her right hand to heaven, and slowly said : " His 
Father, who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the 
good and the bad, and raineth on the just and the unjust." 

Fabiola paused for a time, overawed : then said affection- 
ately and respectfully : " Again, Syra, you have conquered my 
philosophy. Your wisdom is consistent as it is sublime. A 
virtue heroic, even when unseen, you propose as the ordinary 
daily virtue of every one. Men must indeed become more 
than what gods have been thought to be, to attempt it ; but 
the very idea is worth a whole philosophy. Can you lead me 
higher than this ? " 

"Oh, far !— far higher still." 

" And where at length would you leave me ? " 

"Where your heart should tell you that it had found 
peace." 




Monogram of Christ, fo>ind in the 




CHAPTER VI. 
DELIBERATIONS. 

I HE persecution had now been some time rag- 
ing in the East under Dioclesian and Gale- 
rius; and the decree for enkindling it 
throughout the West, had reached Maximian. 
But it had been resolved to make this a 
work, not of repression, but of extermination, 
of the Christian name. It had been deter- 
mined to spare no one; but cutting off the chiefs of the 
religion first, to descend down to the wholesale butchery of 
the poorest classes. It was necessary for this purpose to con- 
cert measures, that the various engines of destruction might 
work in cruel harmony : that every possible instrument should 
be employed to secure completeness to the effort; and also 
that the majesty of imperial command should add its grandeur 
and its terror to the crushing blow. 

For this purpose the emperor, though impatient to begin 
his work of blood, had yielded to the opinion of his counsel- 
lors, that the edict should be kept concealed till it could be 
published siumltaneously in every province, and government, 
of the West. The thundercloud, fraught with vengeance, 
would thus hang for a time, in painful mystery, over its 
intended victims, and then burst suddenly upon them, dis- 
charging upon their heads its mingled elements, and its " fire, 
hail, snow, ice, and boisterous blast." 

It was in the month of November, that Maximian Hercu- 



leus convoked the meeting in which his plans had finally to 
be adjusted. To it were summoned the leading ofiicers of his 
court, and of the state. The principal one, the prefect of the 
city, had brought with him his son, Corvinus, whom he had 
proposed to be captain of a body of armed pursuivants, picked 
out for their savageness and hatred of Christians ; who should 
hunt them out, or down, with unrelenting assiduity. The 
chief prefects or governors of Sicily, Italy, Spain, and Gaul, 
were present, to receive their orders. In addition to these, 
several learned men, philosophers, and orators, among whom 
was our old acquaintance Calpurnius, had been invited ; and 
many priests, who had come from different i^arts, to petition 
for heavier persecution, were commanded to attend. 

The usual residence of the emperors, as we have seen, was 
the Palatine. There was, however, another much esteemed 
by them, which Maximian Herculeus in particular preferred. 
During the reign of Nero, the wealthy senator, Plautius Late- 
ranus, was charged with conspiracy, and of course punished 
with death. His immense property was seized by the em- 
peror, and part of this was his house, described by Juvenal, 
and other writers, as of unusual size and magnificence. It was 
beautifully situated on the Coelian hill, 
and on the southern verge of the city ; 
so that from it was a view^ unequalled 
even in the vicinity of Rome. Stretching 
across the wavy campagna, here bestrided 
by colossal aqueducts, crossed by lines 
of roads, with their fringes of marble 
tombs, and bespangled all over with 

Maximian Herculeas holding his horse 

by the wdie and protected hy a shield glitterina; vlllas, sct llkc gcms in the 

bearing; a she-wolf. From a bronze o o ' o 

medal in the collection of France. ^^^^ grccu cuamcl of laurcl and cyprcss, 
the eye reached, at evening, the purple slope of hills on 
which, as on a couch, lay stretched luxuriously Alba and Tus- 
culum, with "their daughters," according to oriental phrase, 




w 



basking brightly in the setting sun. The craggy range of 
Sabine mountains on the left, and the golden expanse of the 
sea on the right of the beholder, closed in this perfect 
landscape. 

It would be attributing to Maximian a quality which he 
did not possess, were we to give him credit for loving a resi- 
dence so admirably situated, through any taste for the beau- 
tiful. The splendor of the buildings, which he had still 
further adorned, or possibly the facility of running out of the 
city for the chase of boar and wolf, was the motive of this 
preference. A native of Sirmium, in Sclavonia, a reputed 
barbarian therefore of the lowest extraction, a mere soldier of 
fortune, without any education, endowed with little moi-e 
than a brute strength, which made his surname of Herculeus 
most appropriate, he had been raised to the purple by his 
brother-barbarian Diodes, known as the emperor Dioclesian. 
Like him, covetous to meanness, and spendthrift to reckless- 
ness, addicted to the same coarse vices and foul crimes, which 
a Christian pen refuses to record, without restraint of any 
passion, without sense of justice, or feeling of humanity, this 
monster had never ceased to oppress, persecute, and slay who- 
ever stood in his way. To him the coming persecution looked 
like an approaching feast does to a glutton, who requires the 
excitement of a surfeit to relieve the monotony of daily excess. 
Gigantic in frame, with the well-known features of his race, 
with the hair on his head and face more yellow than red, 
shaggy and wild, like tufts of straw, with eyes restlessly roll- 
ing in a compound expression of suspicion, profligacy, and 
ferocity, this almost last of Kome's tyrants struck terror into 
the heart of any beholder, except a Christian. Is it wonder- 
ful that he hated the race and its name ? 

In the large basilica, or hall, then, of the ^des Lateranae,* 
Maximian met his motley council, in which secrecy was 

* The Lateran house or palace. 






w 



ensured by penalty of death. In the semicircular apse at the 
upper end of the hall, sat the emperor, on an ivory throne 
richly adorned, and before him were arranged his obsequious 
and almost trembling adviseis. A chosen body of guards 
kept the entrance ; and the officer in command, Sebastian, 
was leaning negligently against it on the inside, but carefully 
noted every word that was spoken. 

Little did the emperor think, that the hall in which he 
sat, and which he afterwards gave, with the contiguous 
palace, to Constantine, as part of the dowry of his daughter, 
Fausta, would be transferred by him to the head of the 
religion he was planning to extirpate, and become, retaining 
its name of the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of Rome, " of 
all the churches of the city and of the world the mother and 
chief."* Little did he imagine, that on the spot whereon 
rested his throne, would be raised a Chair, whence conmiands 
should issue, to reach worlds unknown to Roman sway, from 
an immortal race of sovereigns, spiritual and temporal. 

Precedence was granted, by religious courtesy, to the 
priests; each of whom had his tale to tell. Here a river 
had overflowed its banks, and done much mischief to the 
neighboring plains; there an earthquake had thrown down 
part of a town; on the northern frontiers the barbarians 
threatened invasion ; at the south, the plague was ravaging 
the pious population. In every instance, the oracles had 
declared, that it was all owing to the Christians, whose 
toleration irritated the gods, and whose evil charms brought 
calamity on the empire. Nay, some had afflicted their 
votaries by openly proclaiming, that they would utter no 
more, till the odious Nazarenes had been exterminated ; and 
the great Delphic oracle had not hesitated to declare, "that 
the Just did not allow the gods to speak." 

Next came the philosophers and orators, each of whom 

* Inscription on the front, and medals, of the Lateran Basilica. 



made his own long-winded oration; during which Maximian 
gave unequivocal signs of weariness. But as the Emperors 
in the East had held a similar meeting, he considered it his 
duty to sit out the annoyance. The usual calumnies were 
i-epeated, for the ten-thousandth time, to an applauding 
assembly ; the stories of murdering and eating infants, of 
committing foul crimes, of worshipping martyi's' bodies, of 
adoring an ass's head, and inconsistently enough of being 
unbelievers, and serving no God. These tales were all most 
tii-mly believed : though probably their reciters knew perfectly 
well, they were but good sound heathen lies, very useful in 
keeping up a horror of Christianity. 

But, at length, up rose the man, who was considered to 
have most deeply studied the doctrines of the enemy, and 
best to know their dangei'ous tactics. He was supposed to 
have read their own books, and to be drawing up a confutation 
of their errors, which would fairly crush them. Indeed, so 
great was his weight with his own side, that when he asserted 
that Christians held any monstrous principle, had their 
supreme pontiff in person contradicted it, every one would 
have laughed at the very idea of taking his word for his own 
belief, against the asserticm of Calpurnius. 

He struck up a different strain, and his learning quite 
astonished his fellow-sophists. He had read the original 
books, he said, not only of the Christians themselves, but of 
their forefathers, the Jews; who, having come into Egypt in 
the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphus, to escape from a famine in 
their own country, through the arts of their leader, Josephus, 
bought up all the corn there, and sent it home. Upon which 
Ptolemy imprisoned them, telling them, that as they had 
eaten up all tlie corn, they should live on the straw, by mak- 
ing bricks with it for building a great city. Then Demetrius 
Phalerius, hearing from them of a great many curious histories 
of their ancestors, shut up Moses and Aaron, their most learned 



w 



men, in a tower, having shaved half their beards, till they 
should write in Greek all their records. These rare books 
Calpurnius had seen, and he would build his argument 
entirely on them. This race made war upon every king and 
people, that came in their way ; and destroyed them all. It 
was their principle, if they took a city, to put every one to the 
sword ; and this was all because they were under the govern- 
ment of their ambitious priests ; so that when a certain king, 
Saul, called also Paul, spared a j)Oor captive monarch whose 
name was Agag, the priests ordered him to be brought out 
and hewed in pieces. 

"Now," continued he, "these Christians are still under 
the domination of the same priesthood, and are quite as ready 
to-day, under their direction, to overthrow the great Roman 
empire, burn us all in the Forum, and even sacrilegiously 
assail the sacred and venerable heads of our divine emperors." 

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly, at this recital. 
It was soon hushed, as the emperor opened his mouth to 
speak. 

"For my part," he said, "I have another and a stronger 
reason for my abhon-ence of these Christians. They have 
dared to establish in the heart of the empire, and in this very 
city, a supreme religious authority, unknown here before, 
independent of tlie government of the State, and equally pow- 
erful over their minds as this. Formerly, all acknowledged 
the emperor as supreme in religious, as in civil, rule. Hence 
he bears still the title of Pontifex Maxinms. But these men 
have raised up a divided power, and consequently bear but a 
divided loyalty. I hate, therefore, as a usurpation in my 
dominions, this sacerdotal sway over my subjects. For I 
declare, that I would rather hear of a new rival starting up 
to my throne, than of the election of one of these priests in 
Rome." * 

* These are the very words of Decius, on the election of St. Cornelius to the 



w 



This speech, delivered in a harsh grating voice, and with 
a vulgar foreign accent, was received with immense applause ; 
and plans were formed for the simultaneous publication of the 
Edict through the West, and for its complete and exterminat- 
ing execution. 

Then turning sharp upon Tertullus, the emperor said : 
" Prefect, you said you had some one to propose, for superin- 
tending these arrangements, and for merciless dealings with 
these traitors." 

"He is here, sire, my son Corvinus." And Tertullus 
handed the youthful candidate to the grim tyrant's footstool, 
where he knelt. Maximian eyed him keenly, burst into a 
hideous laugh, and said : " Upon my word, 1 think he'll do. 
Why, prefect, I had no idea you had such an ugly son. I 
should think he is just the thing ; every quality of a thorough- 
paced, unconscientious scape-grace is stamped upon his 
features." 

Then turning to Corvinus, who was scarlet with rage, 
terror, and shame, he said to him : " Mind you, sirrah, I must 
have clean work of it ; no hacking and hewing, no blundering. 
I pay up well if I am well served ; but I pay off well, too, if 
badly served. So now go ; and remember, that if your back 
can answer for a small fault, your head will for a greater. 
The lictors' fasces contain an axe as well as rods." 

The emperor rose to depart, when his eye caught Fulvius, 
who had been summoned as a paid court-spy, but who kept 
as much in the back-ground as possible. " Ho, there, my 
eastern worthy," he called out to him ; " draw nearer." 

Fulvius obeyed with apparent cheerfulness, but with real 
reluctance ; much the same as if he had been invited to go very 

See of St. Peter: "Cum multo patientius audiret levari adversum se semulum 
principem, quam constitui Eomte Dei sacerdotem." S. Cypr. Ep. lii. ad Antonia- 
num, p. 69, ed. Manr. Could there be a stronger proof, that under the heathen 
empire, the papal power was sensible and external, even to the extent of exciting 
imperial jealousy? 



near a tiger, the strength of whose chain he was not quite 
sure about. He had seen, from the beginning, that his com- 
ing to Rome had not been acceptable to Maximian, though he 
knew not fully the cause. It was not mei'ely that the tyrant 
had plenty of favorites of his own to enrich, and spies to pay, 
without Dioclesian's sending him more from Asia, though this 
had its weight; but it was more. He believed in his heart 
that Fulviiis had been sent principally to act the spy upon 
himself, and to report to Nicomedia the sayings and doings 
of his court. While, therefore, he was obliged to tolerate him, 
and employ him, he mistrusted and disliked him, which in 
him was equivalent to hating him. It was some compensa- 
tion, therefore, to Corvinus, when he heard his more polished 
confederate publicly addressed, as rudely as himself, in the 
following terms : 

"None of your smooth, put-on looks for me, fellow. I 
want deeds, not smirks. Tou came here as a famous plot- 
hunter, a sort of stoat, to pull conspirators out of their nests, 
or suck their eggs for me. I have seen nothing of this so fai- ; 
and yet you have had plenty of money to set you up in busi- 
ness. These Christians will afford you plenty of game ; so 
make yourself ready, and let us see what you can do. You 
know my ways ; you had better look sharp about you, therefore, 
or you may have to look at something very sharp before you. 
The property of the convicted will be divided between the 
accusers and the treasury ; unless I see particular reasons for 
taking the w^hole to myself. Now you may go." 

Most thought that these particular reasons would turn out 
to be very general. 




Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs, 



m 




^ CHAPTER VIL 

* DARK DEATH. 



FEW days after Fabiola's return from the 
country, Sebastian considered it his duty 
to wait upon her, to communicate so 
much of the dialogue between Corvinus 
and her black slave, as he could without 
L causing unnecessary suffering. We have 
already observed, that of the many noble 
,,„ ^^ youths whom Fabiola had met in her father's 

^* house, none had excited her admiration and respect except 
Sebastian. So frank, so generous, so brave, yet so unboast- 
ing ; so mild, so kind in act and speech, so unselfish and so 
careful of others, blending so completely in one character 
nobleness and simplicity, high wisdom and practical sense, 
he seemed to her the most finished type of manly virtue, 
one which would not easily suffer by time, nor weary by 
familiarity. 

When, therefore, it was announced to her that the officer 
Sebastian wished to speak to her alone, in one of the halls 
below, her heart beat at the unusual tidings, and conjured up 
a thousand strange fancies, about the possible topics of his 
interview. This agitation was not diminished, when, after 
apologizing for his seeming intrusion, he remarked with a 
smile, that, well knowing how sufiiciently she was already 
annoyed by the many candidates for her hand, he felt regret 
at the idea that he was going to add another, yet undeclared, 



w 



to her list. If this ambiguous preface surprised, and perhaps 
elated her, she was soon depressed again, upon being told it 
was the vulgar and stupid Corvinus. For her father, even, 
little as he knew how to discriminate characters out of busi- 
ness, had seen enough of him at his late banquet to charac- 
terize him to his daughter by those epithets. 

Sebastian, fearing rather the physical, than the moral 
activity of Afra's drugs, thought it right to inform her of the 
compact between the two dabblers in the black art, the prin- 
cipal ef&cacy of which, however, seemed to consist in drawing 
money from the purse of a reluctant dupe. He of course said 
nothing of what related to the Christians in that dialogue. 
He put her on her guard, and she promised to prevent the 
nightly excursions of her necromancer slave. What Afra had 
engaged to do, she did not for a moment believe it was ever 
her intention to attempt ; neither did she fear arts which she 
utterly despised. Indeed Afra's last soliloquy seemed satis- 
factorily to prove that she was only deceiving her victim. 
But she certainly felt indignant at having been bargained 
about by two such vile characters, and having been repre- 
sented as a grasping avaricious woman, whose price was gold. 

"I feel," she said at last to Sebastian, "how very kind it 
is of you, to come thus to put me on my guard ; and I admire 
the delicacy with which you have unfolded so disagreeable a 
matter, and the tenderness with which you have treated every 
one concerned." 

" I have only done in this instance," replied the soldier, 
"what I should have done for any human being, — save him, 
if possible, from pain or danger." 

"Tour friends, I hope you mean," said Fabiola, smiling; 
" otherwise I fear your whole life would go, in works of unre- 
quited benevolence." 

" And so let it go; it could not be better spent." 

" Surely, you are not in earnest, Sebastian. If you saw 



c::^ 



one who had ever hated you, and sought your destruction, 
threatened with a calamity, which would make him harmless, 
would you stretch out your hand to save, or succor, him ? " 

" Certainly I would. While God sends His sunshine and 
His rain equally upon His enemies, as upon His friends, shall 
weak man frame another rule of justice? " 

At these words Fabiola wondered; they were so like 
those of her mysterious parchment, identical with the moral 
theories of her slave. 

"You have been in the East, I believe, Sebastian," she 
asked him, rather abruptly; "was it there that you learnt 
these principles? For I have one near me, who is yet, by 
her own choice, a servant, a woman of rare moral perceptions, 
who has propounded to me the same ideas; and she is an 
Asiatic." 

" It is not in any distant country that I learnt them ; for 
here I sucked them in with my mother's milk ; though, orig- 
inally, they doubtless came from the East." 

" They are certainly beautiful in the abstract," remarked 
Fabiola; "but death would overtake us before we could 
half carry them out, were we to make them our principles of 
conduct." 

" And how better could death find us, though not surprise 
us, than in thus doing our duty, even if not to its comple- 
tion ? " 

" For my part," resumed the lady, "I am of the old 
Epicurean poet's mind. This world is a banquet, from which 
I shall be ready to depart when I have had my fill — ut conviva 
satur* — and not till then. I wish to read life's book through, 
and close it calmly, only when I have finished its last 
page." 

Sebastian shook his head, smiling, and said, "The last 
page of this world's book comes but in the middle of the 

* " As a sated guest." 



volume, wherever ' death ' may happen to be written. But 
on the next page begins the illuminated book of a new life — 
without a last page." 

" I understand you," replied Fabiola, good-humoredly ; 
" you are a brave soldier, and you speak as such. You must 
be always prepared for death from a thousand casualties ; we 
seldom see it approach suddenly ; it comes more mercifully, 
and stealthily, upon the weak. You no doubt are musing on 
a more glorious fate, on receiving in front full sheaves of 
arrows from the enemy, and falling covered with honor. You 
look to the soldier's funeral pile, with trophies erected over it. 
To you, after death, opens its bright page the book of glory." 

"No, no, gentle lady," exclaimed Sebastian, emphatically. 
" I mean not so. 1 cai'e not for glory, which can only be 
enjoyed by an anticipating fancy. I speak of vulgar death, 
as it may come to me in common with the poorest slave ; 
consuming me by slow burning fever, wasting me by long 
lingering consumption, racking me by slowly eating ulcers ; 
nay, if you please, by the still crueller inflictions of men's 
wrath. In any form let it come ; it comes from a hand that I 
love." 

"And do you really mean that death, so contemplated, 
would be welcomed by you?" 

"As joyful as is the epicure, when the doors of the 
banqueting-hall are thrown wide open, and he sees beyond 
them the brilliant lamps, the glittering table, and its delicious 
viands, with its attendant ministers well girt, and crowned 
with roses ; as blithe as is the bride when the bridegroom is 
announced, coming with rich gifts, to conduct her to her new 
home, will my exulting heart be, Avhen death, under whatever 
form, throws back the gates, iron on this side, but golden on 
the other, which lead to a new and perennial life. And I care 
not how grim the messenger may be, that proclaims the 
approach of Him who is celestially beautiful." . 



'' And who is He ?" asked Fabiola, eagerly. " Can He not 
be seen, save through the fleshless ribs of death ? " 

"No," replied Sebastian; "for it is He who must reward 
us, not only for our lives, but for our deaths also. Happy 
they whose inmost hearts, which He has ever read, have been 
kept pure and innocent, as well as their deeds have been 
virtuous ! For them is this bright vision of Him, whose true 
rewards only then begin." 

How very like Syra's doctrines ! she thought. But before 
she could speak again, to ask whence they came, a slave 
entered, stood on the threshold, and respectfully said : 

"A courier, madam, is just arrived from Baias."* 

" Pardon me, Sebastian ! " she exclaimed. " Let him enter 
immediately." 

The messenger came in, covered with dust and jaded, 
having left his tired horse at the gate; and ofiered her a 
sealed packet. 

Her hand trembled as she took it; and while she was 
unloosening its bands, she hesitatingly asked : 

" From my father ? " 

"About him, at least," was the ominous reply. 

She opened the sheet, glanced over it, shrieked, and fell. 
Sebastian caught her before she reached the ground, laid her 
on a couch, and delicately left her in the hands of her hand- 
maids, who had rushed in at the cry. 

One glance had told her all. Her father was dead. 

* A fashionable watering-place near Naples. 




Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs. 



w 



w 




CHAPTER VIII. 
DARKER STILL. 

HEN Sebastian came into the court, he 
found a little crowd of domestics gath- 
ered round the courier, listening to the 
details of their master's death. 

The letter of which Torquatus was 
the bearer to him, had produced its 
desired effect. He called at his villa, and 
spent a few^ days with his daughter, on his 
way to Asia. He was more than usually affection- 
ate ; and when they parted, both father and daughter seemed 
to have a melancholy foreboding that they would meet no 
more. He soon, however, recovered his spirits at Baias, where 
a party of good livers anxiously awaited him ; and where he 
considered himself obliged to stay, while his galley was being 
fitted up and stored with the best wines and provisions which 
Campania afforded, for his voyage. He indulged, however, 
his luxurious tastes to excess ; and on coming out of a bath, 
after a hearty supper, he w^as seized with a chill, and in four- 
and-twenty hours was a corpse. He had left his undivided 
wealth to his only child. In fine, the body was being em- 
balmed when the courier started, and was to be brought by 
his galley to Ostia. 

On hearing this sad tale, Sebastian was almost sorry that 
he had spoken as he had done of death, and left the house 
with mournful thoughts. 



ffi 






Fabiola's first plunge into the dark abyss of grief was deep 
and dismal, down into unconsciousness. Then the buoyancy 
of youth and mind bore her up again to the surface ; and her 
view of life, to the horizon, was as of a boundless ocean of 
black seething waves, on which floated no living thing save 
herself. Her woe seemed utter and unmeasured; and she 
closed her eyes with a shudder, and suffered herself to sink 
again into obliviousness, till once more roused to wakefulness 
of mind. Again and again she was thus tossed up and down, 
between transient death and life, while her attendants applied 
remedies to what they deemed a succession of alarming fits 
and convulsions. At length she sat up, pale, staring, and 
tearless, gently pushing aside the hand that tried to adminis- 
ter restoratives to her. In this state she remained long ; a 
stupor, fixed and deadly, seemed to have entranced her ; the 
pupils were almost insensible to the light, and fears were 
whispered of her brain becoming oppressed. The physician, 
who had been called, uttered distinctly and forcibly into her 
ears the question : " Fabiola, do you know that your father is 
dead ? " She started, fell back, and a bursting flood of tears 
relieved her heart and head. She spoke of her father, and 
called for him amidst her sobs, and said wild and incoherent, 
but affectionate things about, and to, him. Sometimes she 
seemed to think him still alive, then she remembered he was 
dead ; and so she w^ept and moaned, till sleep took the turn 
of tears, in nursing her shattered mind and frame. 

Euphrosyne and Syra alone watched by her. The former 
had, from time to time, put in the commonplaces of heathen 
consolation, had reminded her too, how kind a master, how 
honest a man, how loving a father he had been. But the 
Christian sat in silence, except to speak gentle and soothing 
words to her mistress, and served her with an active delicacy, 
which even then was not unnoticed. Wliat could she do 
more, unless it was to pray ? What hope for else, than that 



®1, 

CI 



a new grace was folded up, like a flower, in this tribulation ; 
that a bright angel was riding in the dark cloud that over- 
shadowed her humbled lady ? 

As grief receded it left some room for thought. This came 
to Fabiola in a gloomy and searching form. "What was 
become of her father? Whither was he gone? Had he 
melted into unexistence, or had he been crushed into annihi- 
lation ? Had Ms life been searched through by that unseen 
eye which sees the invisible ? Had he stood the proof of that 
scrutiny which Sebastian and Syra had described ? Impos- 
sible ! Then what had become of him ? " She shuddered as 
she thought, and put away the reflection from her mind. 

Oh, for a ray from some unknown light, that would dart 
into the grave, and show her what it was ! Poetry had pre- 
tended to enlighten it, and even glorify it ; but had only, in 
truth, remained at the door, as a genius with drooping head, 
and torch reversed. Science had stepped in, and come out 
scared, with tarnished wings and lamp extinguished in the 
fetid air; for it had only discovered a charnel-house. And 
philosophy had barely ventured to wander round and round, 
and peep in with dread, and recoil, and then prate or bab- 
ble ; and, shrugging its shoulders, own that the problem was 
yet unsolved, the mystery still veiled. Oh, for something, 
or some one, better than all these, to remove the dismal 
perplexity ! 

While these thoughts dwell like gloomy night on the heart 
of Fabiola, her slave is enjoying the vision of light, clothed in 
mortal form, translucid and radiant, rising from the grave as 
from an alembic, in which have remained the grosser qualities 
of matter, without impairing the essence of its nature. 
Spiritualized and free, lovely and glorious, it springs from the 
very hot-bed of corruption. And another and another, from 
land and sea ; from reeking cemetery, and from beneath con- 
secrated altar ; from the tangled thicket where solitary mur- 



CTtr 



der has been committed on the just, and from fields of ancient 
battle done by Israel for God ; like crystal fountains spring- 
ing into the air, like brilliant signal-lights, darted from earth 
to heaven, till a host of millions, side by side, repeoples crea- 
tion with joyous and undying life. And how knows she this? 
Because One, greater and better than poet, sage, or sophist, 
had made the trial ; had descended first into the dark couch 
of death, had blessed it, as He had done the cradle, and made 
infancy sacred; rendering also death a holy thing, and its 
place a sanctuary. He went into it in the darkest of evening, 
and He came forth from it in the brightest of morning ; He 
was laid there wrapped in spices, and he rose again robed in 
His own fragrant incorruption. And from that day the grave 
had ceased to be an object of dread to the Christian soul, for 
it continued what he had made it, — the furrow into which the 
seed of immortality must needs be cast. 

The time was not come for speaking of these things to 
Fabiola. She mourned still, as they must mourn who have 
no hope. Day succeeded day in gloomy meditation on the 
mystery of death, till other cares mercifully roused her. The 
corpse arrived, and such a funeral followed as Rome then 
seldom witnessed. Processions by torch-light, in which the 
waxen eftigies of ancestors were borne, and a huge funeral 
pile, built up of aromatic wood, and scented by the richest 
spices of Arabia, ended in her gathering up a few handfuls of 
charred bones, which were deposited in an alabaster urn, and 
placed in a niche of the family sepulchre, with the name 
inscribed of their former owner. 

Calpurnius spoke the funei-al oration ; in which, according 
to the fashionable ideas of the day, he contrasted the virtues 
of the hospitable and industrious citizen with the false moral- 
ity of those men called Christians, who fasted and prayed all 
day, and were stealthily insinuating their dangerous principles 
into every noble family, and spi-eading disloyalty and immo- 



^ 



rality in every class. Fabius, he could have no doubt, if there 
was any future existence, wliereon philosophers differed, was 
now basking on a green bank in Elysium, and quaffing nectar. 
" And oh ! " concluded the old whining hypocrite, who would 
have been sorry to exchange one goblet of Falernian for an 
amphora* of that beverage, "oh! that the gods would hasten 
the day when I, his humble client, may join him in his shady 
repose and sober banquets!" This noble sentiment gained 
immense applause. 

To this care succeeded another. Fabiola had to apply her 
vigorous mind to examine, and close her father's complicated 
affairs. How often was she pained at the discovery of what 
to her seemed injustice, fraud, over-reaching and oppression, 
in the transactions of one whom the world had applauded as 
the most honest and liberal of public contractors ! 

In a few weeks more, in the dark attire of a mourner, 
Fabiola went forth to visit her friends. The first of these was 
her cousin Agnes. 

* A large earthenware vessel, in which wine was kept in the cellar. 




The Peacock, as an Emblem of the ReBurrection, foand in the Catacombs. 



^ 



CHAPTER IX, 



THE FALSE BROTHER. 







?"-^^ E must take our reader back a few 
steps in the history of Torquatus. 
On the morning after his fall, he 
found, on awaking, Fulvius at his 
bed-side. It was the falconei', who, 
having got hold of a good hawk, was 
come to tame him, and train him to strike down the 
dove for him, in return for a well-fed slavery. With 
all the coolness of a practised hand, he brought back 
^' to his memory every circumstance of the preceding 
night's debauch, his utter ruin, and only means of escape. 
With unfeeling precision he strengthened every thread of 
the last evening's web, and added many more meshes 
to it. 

The position of Torquatus was this : if he made one step 
towards Christianity, which Fulvius assured him would be 
fruitless, he would be at once delivered to the judge, and 
cruelly punished with death. If he remained faithful to his 
compact of treason, he should want for nothing. 

"You are hot and feverish," at last concluded Fulvius; 
"an early walk, and fresh air, will do you good." 

The poor wretch consented ; and they had hardly reached 
the Forum, when Corvinus, as if by accident, met them. After 
mutual salutations, he said : " I am glad to have fallen in 



sTTD 



M-P 



^:i 



with you ; I should Uke to take you, and show you my father's 
workshop." 

" Workshoj) ? " asked Torquatus with surprise. 

" Yes, where he keeps his tools ; it has just been beautifully 
fitted up. Here it is, and that grim old foreman, Catulus, is 
opening the doors." 

They entered into a spacious court with a shed round it, 
filled with engines of torture of every form. Torquatus shrunk 
back. 

"Come in, masters, don't be afraid," said the old execu- 
tioner. " There is no fire put on yet, and nobody will hurt 
you, unless you happen to be a wicked Christian. It's for 
them we have been polishing up of late." 

"Now, Catulus," said Corvinus, "tell this gentleman, 
who is a stranger, the use of these pretty toys you have 
here." 

Catulus, with good heart, showed them round his museum 
of horrors, explaining every thing with such hearty good-will, 
and no end of jokes not quite fit for i-ecord, that in his enthu- 
siasm he nearly gave Torquatus practical illustrations of what 
he described, having once almost caught his ear in a pair of 
sharp pincers, and another time brought down a mallet within 
an inch of his teeth. 

The rack, a large gridiron, an iron chair with a furnace 
in it for heating it, large boilers for hot oil or scalding- 
water baths ; ladles for melting lead, and pouring it neatly 
into the mouth ; pincers, hooks and iron combs of varied 
shapes, for laying bare the ribs ; scorpions, or scourges 
armed with iron or leaden knobs ; iron collars, manacles 
and fetters of the most tormenting make ; in fine, swords, 
knives, and axes in tasteful varieties,* were all commented 
upon with true relish, and an anticipation of much enjoy- 

* These instruments of cruelty are mentioned in the Acts of the Martyrs, and 
in ecclesiastical historians. 



u u ai , ^ UC 




Plumhatm. Whips made of 
brass chains to which are 
attached leaden balls. 




Volsellie, Tweezftrs or ToDg 




Pectines ferrei. Iron Comb. 



Uncue^ or hopk. 



Instruments of Torture used against the Christians. Fronn Rollep*s 
*'Cataeonn,bes de Ronie." 



^ 



ment, in seeing them used on those hard-headed and thick- 
skinned Christians. 

Torquatus was thoroughly broken down. He was taken 
to the baths of Antoninus, where he caught the attention of 
old Cucumio, the head of the wardrobe department, or cap- 
sarius, and his wife Victoria, who had seen him at church. 
After a good refection, he was led to a gambling-hall in the 
Thermae, and lost, of course. Fulvius lent him money, but 
for every farthing, exacted a bond. By these means, he was, 
in a few days, completely subdued. 

Their meetings were early and late; during the day 
he was left free, lest he should lose his value, through 
being suspected by Christians. Corvinus had deterijiined 
to make a tremendous dash at them, so soon as the Edict 
should have come out. He therefore exacted from Torqua- 
tus, as his share of the compact, that the spy should study 
the principal cemetery w^here the pontiff intended to offi- 
ciate. This Torquatus soon ascertained ; and his visit to 
the cemetery of Callistus was in fulfilment of his engage- 
ment. When that struggle between grace and sin took 
place in his soul, which Severus noticed, it was the image 
of Catulus and his hundred plagues, with that of Fulvius 
and his hundred bonds, that turned the scale in favor of 
perdition. Corvinus, after receiving his report, and making 
from it a rough chart of the cemetery, determined to 
assail it, early, the very day after the publication of the 
Decree. 

Fulvius took another course. He determined to become 
acquainted, by sight, with the principal clergy, and leading 
Christians, of Rome. Once possessed of this knowledge, 
he was sure no disguise would conceal them from his 
piercing eyes; and he would easily pick them uj), one by 
one. He therefore insisted upon Torquatus's taking him as 
his companion, to the first great function that should collect 



many priests and deacons round the Pope. He overruled 
every remonstrance, dispelled every fear; and assured Tor- 
quatus, that once in, by his password, he should behave 
perfectly like any Christian. Torquatus soon informed him, 
that there would be an excellent opportunity at the coming 
ordination, in that very month of December. 




Christ and His Apo&tlesr, from a picture in the Catacombs. 



cht 



CHAPTER X, 




city ; the 

dioceses. 

reflated 



THE ORDINATION IN DECEMBER. 



HOEVER has read the history of the early 
Popes, will have become familiar with the 
fact, recorded almost invariably of each, that 
he held certain ordinations in the month 
of December, wherein he created so many 
priests, and deacons, and so many bishops 
for different places. The first two orders 
were conferred to supply clergy for the 
third was evidently to furnish pastors for other 
In later times, the ember-days in December, 
by the festival of St. Lucy, were those on which 
the Supreme Pontiff held his consistories, in which he 
named his cardinal priests and deacons, and preconized, as it 
is called, the bishops of all parts of the world. And, though 
this function is not now coincident with the periods of ordina- 
tion, still it is continued essentially for the same purpose. 

Marcellinus, under whose pontificate our narrative is 
placed, is stated to have held two ordinations in this month, 
that is, of course, in different years. It was to one of these 
that we have alluded, as about to take place. 

Where was this solemn function to be performed was 
Fulvius's first inquiry. And we cannot but think that the 
answer will be interesting to the Christian antiquary. Nor 
can our acquaintance with the ancient Roman Church be 
complete, without our knowing the favored spot where Pontiff 



m 



after Pontiff preached, and celebrated the divine mysteries, 
and held his councils, or those glorious ordinations, which 
sent forth not only bishops but martyrs to govern other 
churches, and gave to a St. Laurence his diaconate, or to St. 
Novatus or St. Timotheus his priesthood. There, too, a Poly- 
carp or Irengeus visited the successor of St. Peter ; and thence 
received their commission the apostles who converted our 
King Lucius to the faith. 

The house which the Roman Pontiffs inhabited, and the 
church in which they officiated till Constantine installed them 
in the Lateran palace and basilica, the residence and cathe- 
dral of the illustrious line of martyr-popes for 300 years, can 
be no ignoble spot. And that, in tracing it out, we may not 
be misguided by national or personal prepossession, we will 
follow a learned living antiquarian, who, intent upon another 
research, accidentally has put together all the data requisite 
for our purpose.* 

We have described the house of Agnes's parents as situ- 
ated in the Vicus Patricius, or the Patrician-street. This had 
another name, for it was also called the street of the Cornelii, 
Vicus Corneliorum, because in it lived the illustrious family 
of that name. The centurion whom St. Peter converted t 
belonged to this family; and possibly to him the apostle 
owed his introduction at Rome to the head of his house, Cor- 
nelius Pudens. This senator married Claudia, a noble British 
lady ; and it is singular how the unchaste poet Martial vies 
with the purest writers when he sings the wedding-song of 
these two virtuous spouses. 

It was in their house that St. Peter lived ; and his fellow- 
apostle St. Paul enumerates them among his familiar friends, 
as well : " Eubulus and Pudens, and Linus and Claudia, 

* '•'Sopra I'antichissimo altare di legno, rinchiuso nell' altare papale," &c. 
" On the most ancient wooden altar, enclosed in the papal altar of the most holy 
Lateran basilica." By Monsig. D. Bartolini. Eome, 1852. 

f Acts 2. 



w 



and all the brethren salute thee."' * From that house, then, 
went forth the bishops, whom the Prince of the Apostles sent 
in every direction, to propagate, and die for, the faith of 
Christ. After the death of Pudens, the house became the 
property of his children, or grandchildren,! two sons and two 




llljlktjj 

St. Pudentiana, St. Priscilla, and St. Praxcdes. 

daughters. The latter are better known, because they have 
found a place in the general calendar of the Church, and 
because they have given their names to two of the most illus- 
trious churches of Rome, those of St. Praxedes and St. Pu- 
dentiana. It is the latter, which Alban Butler calls "the 

* 2 Tim. iv. 21. 

t A second or younger Pudens is spoken of. 



\ 



most ancient church in the world," * that marks at once the 
Vicus Patricius, and the house of Pudens. 

As in every other city, so in Rome, the eucharistic sacri- 
fice was offered originally in only one place, by the bishop. 
And even after more churches were erected, and the faithful 
met in them, communion was brought to them from the one 
altar by the deacons, and distributed by the priests. It was 
Pope Evaristus, the fourth successor of St. Peter, who multi- 
plied the churches of Pome with circumstances peculiarly 
interesting. 

This Pope, then, did two things. First, he enacted that 
from thenceforward no altars should be erected except of 
stone, and that they should be consecrated; and secondly, 
"he distributed the titles ;^^ that is, he divided Rome into par- 
ishes, to the churches of which he gave the name of "title." 
The connection of these two acts will be apparent to any one 
looking at Genesis xxviii. ; where, after Jacob had enjoyed an 
angelic vision, while sleeping with a stone for his pillow, we 
are told that, " trembling he said. How terrible is this place ! 
This is no other than the house of God, and the gate of heaven. 
And Jacob arising in the morning took the stone, ..... and 
set it up for a title, pouring oil on the top of itr t 

The church or oratory, where the sacred mysteries were 
celebrated, was truly, to the Christian, the house of God ; and 
the stone altar, set up in it, was consecrated by the pouring 
of oil upon it, as is done to this day (for the whole law of 
Evaristus remains in full force) ; and thus became a title, or 
monument.! 

Two interesting facts are elicited from this narrative. 
One is, that to that time there was only one church with an 
altar in Rome ; and no doubt has ever been raised, that this 

* May the 19th. 
. t Verses 17, 18. 
\ It is not necessary to go into the classical uses of the word titulus. 






was the church afterwards, and yet, known by the name of 
St. Pudentiana. Another is, that the one altar till then 
existing Avas not of stone. It was, in fact, the wooden altar 
used by St. Peter, and kept in that church, till transferred by 
St. Sylvester to the Lateran basilica, of which it forms the 
high altar.* We further conclude, that the law was not 
retrospective, and that the wooden altar of the Popes was 
preserved at that church, where it had been first erected, 
though from time to time it might be carried, and used else- 
where. 

The church in the Vicus Patricius, therefore, which existed 
previous to the creation of titles, was not itself a title. It 
continued to be the episcopal, or rather the pontifical church 
of Eome. The pontificate of St. Pius L, from 142 to 157, 
forms an interesting period in its history, for two reasons. 

First, that Pope, without altering the character of the 
church itself, added to it an oratory which he made a title ; t 
and having collated to it his brother Pastor, it was called the 
tituhts Pastoris, the designation, for a long time, of the cardi- 
nalate attached to the church. This shows that the church 
itself was more than a title. 

Secondly, in this pontificate came to Rome, for the second 
time, and suffered martyrdom, the holy and learned apologist 
St. Justin. By comparing his writings with his Acts,t we 
come to some interesting conclusions respecting Christian 
worship in times of persecution. 

" In what place do the Christians meet? " he is asked by 
the judge. 

* Only the Pope can say Mass on it, or a cardinal, by authority of a special 
bull. This high altar has been lately magnificently decorated. A plank of the 
wooden altar has always been preserved in St. Peter's altar, at St. Pudentiana's. 
It has been lately compared with the wood of the Lateran altar, and found to be 
identical. 

t Its site is now occupied by the Caetani chapel. 

X Prefixed tothe Maurist edition of his works, or in Ruinart, i. 



urri 



"Do you think," he replies, "that we all meet in one 
place ? It is not so." But when interrogated where he 
lived, and where he held meetings with his disciples, he 
answered, " I have lived till now near the house of a certain 
Martin, at the bath known as the Timotine. I have come 
to Home for the second time, nor do I know any other 
place but the one I have mentioned." The Timotine or 
Timothean baths were part of the house of the Pudens 
family, and are those at which Ave have said that Fulvius 
and Corvinus met early one morning. ISTovatus and Timo- 
theus were the brothers of the holy virgins Praxedes and 
Pudentiana ; and hence the baths were called the Nova- 
tian and the Timotine, as they passed from one brother to 
another. 

St. Justin, therefore, lived on this spot, and, as lie knew 
no other in Borne, attended divine worship there. The 
very claims of hosj^itality would suggest it. Now in his 
apology, describing the Christian liturgy, of course such 
as he saw it, he speaks of the officiating priest in terms that 
sufficiently describe the bishop, or supreme pastor of the 
place ; not only by giving him a title applied to bishops 
in antiquity,* but by describing him as the person Avho 
has the care of orphans and widows, and succors the sick, 
the indigent, prisoners, strangers who come as guests, 
who, "in one word, undertakes to provide for all in 
want." This could be no other than the bishop or pope 
himself. 

We must further observe, that St. Pius is recorded to 
have erected a fixed baptismal font in this church, another 
prerogative of the cathedral, transferred with the papal 
altar to the Lateran. It is related that the holy Pope 

* rrpoeaTug, prcBpositus, see Heb. xiii. 17. tuv Pufiaiuv nposcTug HiKTup, 
'■ Victor bishop of the Eomans." Euseb. H. E. I. v. 34. The Greek word used is 
the same as in St. Justin. 



arm 



Stephen (a.d. 257) baptized the tribune Nemesius and his 
family, with many others, in the title of Pastor.* And 
here it was that the blessed deacon Laurentius distributed 
the rich vessels of the Church to the poor. 

In time this name has given way to anothbr. But the 
place is the same ; and no doubt can exist, that the church 
of St. Pudentiana was, for the first three centuries, the 
humble cathedral of Rome. 

It was to this spot, therefore, that Torquatus unwillingly 
consented to lead Fulvius, that he might witness the Decem- 
ber ordination. 

We find either in sepulchral inscriptions, in martyr- 
ologies, or in ecclesiastical history, abundant traces of all 
the orders, as still conferred in the Catholic Church. Inscrip- 
tions perhaps more commonly record those of Lector or 
reader, and of Exorcist. We will give one interesting 
example of each. Of a Lector: 

CINNAMIVS OPAS LECTOR TITVLI FASCICLE AMICVS PAVPERVM 
aVI VIXIT ANN. XLVL MENS. VIL D. VIII. DEPOSIT IN PACE 
X KAL. MART.t 

Of an Exorcist: 



MACEDONIVS 

EXORCISTA DE KAT0LICA4 

* The learned Bianchini plausibly conjectures that the station on Easter 
Sunday is not at the Lateran (the cathedral), nor at St. Peter's, where the 
Pope ofiSciates, at one of which it would naturally be expected to be, but 
at the Liberian basilica, because it used to be held for the administration 
of baptism at St. Pudentiana's, which is only a stone's throw from it. 

f " Cinnamius Opas Lector, of the title of Fasciola" (now SS. Nereus and 
Achilleus), "the friend of the poor, who lived forty-six years, seven months, and 
eight days. Interred in peace the tenth day before the calends of March." From 
St. Paul's. 

X " Macedonius, an exorcist of the Catholic Church." From the cemetery of 
SS. Thraso and Saturniuus, on the Salarian way. 

297 



A difference was, however, that one order was not neces- 
sarily a passage, or step, to another; but persons remained, 
often for life, in one of these lesser orders. There was not, 
therefore, that frequent administration of these, nor probably 
was it publicly performed with the higher orders. 

Torquatus, having the necessary pass-word, entered, 
accompanied by Fulvius, who soon showed himself expert in 
acting as others did around him. The assembly was not 
large. It was held in a hall of the house, converted into a 
church or oratory, which was mainly occupied by the clergy, 
and the candidates for orders. Among the latter were Marcus 
and Marcellianus, the twin brothers, fellow-converts of Tor- 
quatus, who received the deaconship, and their father Tran- 
quillinus, who was ordained priest. Of these Fulvius impressed 
well in his mind the features and figure ; and still more did he 
take note of the clergy, the most eminent of Rome, there assem- 
bled. But on one, more than the rest, he fixed his piercing 
eye, studying his every gesture, look, voice, and lineament. 

This was the Pontiff who performed the august rite. Mar- 
cellinus had already governed the Church six years, and was 
of a venerable old age. His countenance, benign and mild, 
scarcely seemed to betoken the possession of that nerve which 
martyrdom required, and which he exhibited in his death for 
Christ. In those days every outward characteristic which 
could have betrayed the chief shepherd to the wolves was 
carefully avoided. The ordinary simple garb of respectable 
men was worn. But there is no doubt that when officiating 
at the altar, a distinctive robe, the forerunner of the ample 
chasuble, of spotless white, was cast over the ordinary gar- 
ment. To this the bishop added a crown, or infula, the origin 
of the later mitre ; while in his hand he held the crosier, 
emblem of his pastoral office and authority. 

On him who now stood facing the assembly, before the 
sacred altar of Peter, which was between him and the 



nrr 



1^ 



people,* the Eastern spy steadied his keenest glance. He 
scanned him minutely, measured, with his eye, his height, 
defined the color of his hair and complexion, observed every 
turn of his head, his walk, his action, his tones, almost his 
breathing, till he said to himself: " If he stirs abroad, disguised 
as he may choose, that man is my prize. And I know his 
worth." 

* In the great and old basilicas of Rome the celebrant faces the faithful. 



»%i£^K^, 




Our Saviour represented as the Good Shepherd, with a Milk-can at his side, as found in the Catacombs. 



u u ® 



CHAPTER XI. 
THE VIRGINS. 



PRIE IVN 


PAVSA 


BET PRAETIOSA | 


ANNORVM 


PVLLA 


VIRGO XII 


TANTVM 


ANCJLLA 


DEI ET XPI 


FL. VINCENTIO ET | 


FRAVITO 


VC ■ CONSS.* 



^F the learned Thomassinus had known this 
lately-discovered inscription, when he proved 
; Avith such abundance of learning, that vir- 
ginity could be professed in the early Church, 
■^ at the age of twelve, he would certainly 
have quoted it.t For can we doubt that 
"the girl wdio was a virgin of only twelve 
years old, a handmaid of God and Christ," was 
such by consecration to God ? Otherwise, the 
more tender her age, the less wonderful her state 
of maidenhood. 

But although this, the nubile age, according to Eoman 

* " The day before the first of June ceased to live Prsstiosa, a girl (puella), a 
virgin of only twelve years of age, the handmaid of God and of Christ. In the 
consulship of Flavius Vincentius, and Fravitus, a consular man." Found in the 
cemetery of Callistus. 

f Vetus et Nova Ecclesice Disciplina ; circa Beneficia. Par. I. lib. iii. (Luc. 
1727.) 




law, was the one at which such dedication to God was per- 
mitted by the Church, she reserved to a niaturer period that 
more solemn consecration, when the veil of virginity was 
given by the bishop ; generally on Easter Sunday. That first 
act probably consisted of nothing more than receiving fi'om 
the hands of parents a plain dark dress. But when any dan- 
ger threatened, the Church permitted the anticipation, by 
many years, of that period, and fortified the spouses of Christ 
in their holy purpose, by her more solemn blessing.* 

A persecution of the most savage character was on the 
point of breaking out, which would not spare the most tender 
of the flock ; and it was no wonder that they, who in their 
hearts had betrothed themselves to the Lamb, as His chaste 
spouses forever, should desire to come to His nuptials before 
death. They longed naturally to bear the full-grown lily, 
entwined round the palm, should this be their portion. 

Agnes had from her infancy chosen for herself this holiest 
state. The superhuman wisdom which had ever exhibited 
itself in her words and actions, blending so gracefully with 
the simplicity of an innocent and guileless childhood, rendered 
her ripe, beyond her years, for any measure of indulgence 
which could be granted, to hearts that panted for their chaste 
bridal-hour. She eagerly seized on the claim that coming 
danger gave her, to a more than usual relaxation of that law 
which prescribed a delay of more than ten years in the ful- 
filling of her desire. Another postulant joined her in this 
petition. 

We may easily imagine that a holy friendship had been 
growing between her and Syra, from the first interview which 
we have described between them. This feeling had been 
increased by all that Agnes had heard Fabiola say, in praise 
of her favorite servant. From this, and from the slave's more 
modest reports, she was satisfied that the work to which she 

* Thomass. p. 792. 



dij- 



had devoted herself, of her mistress's conversion, must be 
entirely left in her hands. It was evidently prospering, owing 
to the prudence and grace wdth which it was conducted. In 
her frequent visits to Fabiola, she contented herself with 
admiring and approving what her cousin related of Syra's 
conversations ; but she carefully avoided every expression that 
could raise suspicion of any collusion between them. 

Syra as a dependant, and Agnes as a relation, had put on 
mourning upon Fabius's death ; and hence no change of habit 
would raise suspicion in his daughter's mind, of their having 
taken some secret, or some joint step. Thus far they could 
safely ask to be admitted at once to receive the solemn conse- 
cration to perpetual virginity. Their petition was granted ; 
but for obvious reasons w'as kept carefully concealed. It was 
only a day or two before the happy one of their spiritual nup- 
tials, that Syra told it, as a great secret, to her blind friend. 

"And so," said the latter, pretending to be displeased, 
"you want to keep all the good things to yourself. Do you 
call that charitable, now ? " 

"My dear child," said Syra, soothingly, "don't be offended. 
It was necessary to keep it quite a secret." 

"And therefore, I suppose, poor I must not even be 
present? " 

"Oh, yes, Ceecilia, to be sure you may; and see all that 
you can," replied Syra, laughing. 

" Never mind about the seeing. But tell me, how wall you 
be dressed ? What have you to get ready ? " 

Syra gave her an exact description of the habit and veil, 
their color and form. 

" How very interesting ! " she said. " And what have you 
to do?" 

The other, amused at her unwonted curiosity, described 
minutely the short ceremonial. 

" Well now^, one question more," resumed the blind girl. 



"When and where is all this to be? You said I might come, 
so I must know the time and place." 

Syra told her it would be at the title of Pastor, at day- 
break, on the third day from that. " But what has made you 
so inquisitive, dearest? I never saw you so before. I am 
afraid you are becoming quite worldly." 

" Never you mind," replied Caecilia, " if people choose to 
have secrets from me, I do not see why I should not have 
some of my own." 

Syra laughed at her affected pettishness, for she knew well 
the humble simplicity of the ]30or child's heart. They em- 
braced affectionately and parted. Caecilia went straight to 
the kind Lucina, for she was a favorite in every house. No 
sooner was she admitted to that pious matron's presence, than 
she flew to her, threw herself upon her bosom, and burst into 
tears. Lucina soothed and caressed her, and soon composed 
her. In a few minutes she was again bright and joyous, and 
evidently deep in conspiracy, with the cheerful lady, about 
something which delighted her. When she left she was 
all buoyant and blithe, and went to the house of Agnes, 
in the hospital of which the good priest Dyonisius lived. 
She found him at home; and casting herself on her knees 
before him, talked so fervently to him that he was moved 
to tears, and spoke kindly and consolingly to her. The 
Te Deum had not yet been written ; but something very 
like it rang in the blind girl's heart, as she went to her 
humble home. 

The happy morning at length arrived, and before daybreak 
the more solemn mysteries had been celebrated, and the body 
of the faithful had dispersed. Only those remained who had 
to take part in the more private function, or who were spe- 
cially asked to witness it. These were Lucina and her son, the 
aged parents of Agnes, and of course Sebastian. But Syra 
looked in vain for her blind friend ; she had evidently retired 



with the crowd ; and the gentle slave feared she might have 
hurt her feelings by her reserve, before their last inter- 
view. 

The hall was still shrouded in the dusk of a winter's 
twilight, although the glowing east, without, foretold a bright 
December day. On the altar burned perfumed tapers of 
large dimensions, and round it were gold and silver lamps 




Cliaii' of St. Pete 



of great value, throwing an atmosphere of mild radiance 
upon the sanctuary. In front of the altar was placed 
the chair no less venerable than itself, now enshrined in 
the Vatican, the chair of Peter. On this was seated the 
venerable Pontiff, with staff in hand, and crown on head, and 
round him stood his ministers, scarcely less worshipful than 
himself. 

From the gloom of the chapel, there came forth iirst the 
sound of sweet voices, like those of angels, chanting in soft 






cadence, a hymn, which anticipated the sentiments soon after 
embodied in the 

"Jesu corona virginum."* 

Then there emerged into the light of the sanctuary the pro- 
cession of abeady consecrated virgins, led by the priests and 
deacons who had charge of them. And in the midst of them 
appeared two, whose dazzling white garments shone the 
brighter amidst their dark habits. These were the two new 
postulants, who, as the rest defiled and formed a line on either 
side, were conducted, each by two professed, to the foot of the 
altar, where they knelt at the Pontiff's feet. Their brides- 
maids, or sponsors, stood near to assist in the function. 

Each as she came was asked solemnly what she desired, 
and expressed her wish to receive the veil, and practise its 
duties, under the care of those chosen guides. For, although 
consecrated virgins had begun to live in community before 
this period, yet many continued to reside at home; and perse- 
cution interfered with enclosure. Still there was a place in 
church, boarded off for the consecrated virgins ; and they often 
met apart, for particular instruction and devotions. 

The bishop then addressed the young aspirants, in glowing 
and affectionate words. He told them how high a call it w^as 
to lead on earth the lives of angels, who neither marry nor 
give in marriage, to tread the same chaste path to heaven 
which the Incarnate Word chose for His own Mother; and 
arrived there, to be received into the pure ranks of that picked 
host, that follows the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. He 
expatiated on the doctrine of St. Paul, writing to the Corin- 
thians on the superiority of virginity to every other state ; and 
he feelingly described the happiness of having no love on earth 
but one, which instead of fading, opens out into immortality, 
in heaven. For bliss, he observed, is but the expanded flower 
which Divine love bears on earth. 

* "Jesus the virgin's crown," the hymn for virgins. 



^a 



^ 



After this brief discourse, and an examination of the candi- 
dates for this great honor, the holy Pontiff proceeded to bless 
the different portions of their religious habits, by prayers j^rob- 
ably nearly identical with those now in use ; and these were 
put on them by their respective attendants. The new religious 
laid their heads upon the altar, in token of their oblation of 
self. But in the West, the hair was not cut, as it was in the 
East, but was always left long. A wreath of flowers was then 
placed upon the head of each ; and though it was winter, the 
well-guarded terrace of Fabiola had been made to furnish 
bright and fragrant blossoms. 

All seemed ended ; and Agnes, kneeling at the foot of the 
altar, was motionless in one of her radiant raptures, gazing 
fixedly upwards ; while Syra, near her, was bowed down, sunk 
into the depths of her gentle humility, wondering how she 
should have been found worthy of so much favor. So absorbed 
were both in their thanksgiving, that they perceived not a 
slight commotion through the assembly, as if something unex- 
pected was occurring. 

They were aroused by the bishop repeating the question : 
" My daughter, what dost thou seek ? " when, before they could 
look round, each felt a hand seized, and heard the answer 
returned in a voice dear to both : " Holy father, to receive the 
veil of consecration to Jesus Christ, my only love on earth, under 
the care of these two holy virgins, already His happy spouses." 

They were overwhelmed with joy and tenderness ; for it was 
the poor blind Cecilia. When she heard of the happiness that 
awaited Syra, she had flown, as we have seen, to the kind 
Lucina, who soon consoled her, by suggesting to her the possi- 
bility of obtaining a similar grace. She promised to furnish 
all that was necessary ; only Cecilia insisted that her dress 
should be coarse, as became a poor beggar-girl. The priest 
Dionysius presented to the Pontiff, and obtained the grant of, 
her prayer ; and as she wished to have her two friends for 



LlUal 



w 



5- 



sponsors, it was arranged that he should lead her up to the 
altar after their consecration. Ca3cilia, however, kept her secret. 

The blessings were spoken, and the habit and veil put on ; 
when they asked her if she had brought no wreath or flowers. 
Timidly she drew from under her garment the crown she had 
provided, a bare, thorny branch, twisted into a circle, and pre- 
sented it, saying : 

" I have no flowers to offer to my Bridegroom, neither did 
He wear flowers for me. I am but a poor girl, and do you 
think my Lord will be offended, if I ask Him to crown me, as 
He was pleased to be crowned Himself? And then, flowers 
represent virtues in those that wear them ; but my barren 
heart has produced nothing better than these." 

She saw not, with her blind eyes, how her two companions 
snatched the wreaths from their heads, to put on hers ; but a 
sign from the Pontiff checked them ; and amidst moistened 
eyes, she was led forth, all joyous, in her thorny crown; 
emblem of what the Church has always taught, that the very 
queenship of virtue is innocence crowned by penance. 




The Anchor and Fishes, an emblem of Christianity, found in the Catacomhs, 



f 




CHAPTER XII. 



THE NOMENTAN VILLA. 



'£ HE Nomentan road goes from Rome east- 
ward, and between it and tlie Salarian 
is a dee]) ravine, beyond which on the 
side of the Nomentan way lies a grace- 
fully undulating ground. Amidst this 
is situated a picturesque round temple, 
and near it a truly beautiful basilica, 
dedicated to St. Agnes. Here was the villa 
"^^^ belonging to her, situated about a mile and a 
half from the city ; and thither it had been 
arranged that the two, now the three, newly consecrated 
should repair, to spend the day in retirement and tranquil joy. 
Few more such days, perhaps, would ever be granted them. 

We need not describe this rural residence, except to say 
that everything in it breathed contentment and happiness. 
It Avas one of those genial days which a Roman winter sup- 
plies. The rugged Apennines Avere slightly powdered with 
snow ; the ground was barely crisp, the atmosphere transpa- 
rent, the sunshine glowing, and the heavens cloudless. A few 
greyish curls of melting smoke from the cottages, and the 
leafless vines, alone told that it was December. Everything 
living seemed to know and love the gentle mistress of the 
place. The doves came and perched ui)on her shoulder or 
her hand ; the lambs in the paddock frisked, and ran to her 
the moment she approached, and took the green fragrant 



herbs which she brought theai, with evident pleasure; but 
none owned her kindly sway so niucli as old Molossus, the 
enormous watchdog. Chained beside the gate, so fierce was 
he, that none but a lew favorite domestics durst go near him. 
But no sooner did Agnes a])i)ear than he crouched down, and 
wagged his bushy tail, and whined, till he was let loose; for 
now a child might approach him. He never left his mis- 
tress's side; he followed \un- like a hunb; and if she sat down 
he would lie at her feet, looking into her face, delighted to 
receive, on his huge head, the caresses of her slender hand. 

It was indeed a peaceful day ; sometimes calm and (|uiet, 
soft and tender, as the three spoke together of the morning's 
happiness, and of the happier morning of which it was a 
pledge, above the liquid amber of their present skies ; some- 
times cheerful and even merry, as the two took Cascilia to task 
for the trick she had played them. And she laughed cheerily, 
as she always did, and told them she had a better trick in 
store for them yet ; which was, that she would cut them out 
when that next morning came ; for she intended to be the first 
at it, and not the last. 

Fabiola had, in the meantime, come to the villa to j^ay 
her first visit to Agnes after her calamity, and to thank her for 
her sympathy. She walked forward, but stopped suddenly on 
coming near the spot where this happy group were assembled. 
For when she beheld the two who could see the outward 
brightness of heaven, hanging over her who seemed to hold all 
its splendor within her soul, she saw at once, in the scene, the 
verification of her dream. Yet unwilling to intrude herself 
unexpectedly upon them, and anxious to find Agnes alone, 
and not with her own slave and a poor blind girl, she turned 
away before she was noticed, and walked towards a distant 
part of the grounds. Still she could not help asking herself, 
why she could not be cheerful and happy as they ? Why was 
there a gulf between them ? 



u u J 



IP 



c 

C 



But the day was not destined to finish without its clouds ; 
it would have been too blissful for earth. Besides Fabiola, 
another person had started from Rome, to pay a less welcome 
visit to Agnes. This was Fulvius, who had never forgotten 
the assurances of Fabius, that his fascinating address and 
brilliant ornaments had turned the weak head of Agnes. He 
had waited till the first days of mourning were ovei-, and he 
respected the house in which he had once received such a 
rude reception, or rather suffered such a summary ejectment. 
Having ascertained that, for the first time, she had gone with- 
out her parents, or any male attendants, to her suburban 
villa, he considered it a good opportunity for pressing his suit. 
He rode out of the Nomentan gate, and was soon at Agnes' s. 
He dismounted ; said he wished to see her on important busi- 
ness, and, after some importunity, was admitted by the porter. 
He was directed along a walk, at the end of which she would 
be found. The sun was declining, and her companions had 
strolled to a distance, and she was sitting alone in a bright 
sunny spot, with old Molossus crouching at her feet. The 
slightest approach to a growl from him, rare when he was 
with her, made her look up from her work of tying together 
such winter flowers as the others brought her, while she sup- 
pressed, by raising a finger, this expression of instinctive 
dislike. 

Fulvius came near with a respectful, but freer air than 
usual, as one already assured of his request. 

"I have come, Lady Agnes," he said, "to renew to you 
the expression of my sincere regard ; and I could not have 
chosen a better day, for brighter or fairer scarcely the summer 
sun could have bestowed." 

" Fair, indeed, and bright it has been to me," replied 
Agnes, borne back in mind to the morning's scene ; " and no 
sun in my life has ever given me fairer, — it can only give me 
07ie more fair." 



Fulvius was flattered, as if the compliment was to his 
presence, and answered, "The day, no doubt you mean, of 
your espousals with one who may have won your heart." 

"That is indeed done," she replied, as if unconsciously; 
" and this is his own precious day." 

"And was that wreathed veil upon your head, placed there 
in anticipation of this happy hour?" 

"Yes; it is the sign my beloved has placed upon my 
countenance, that I recognize no lover but himself."* 

" And who is this happy being ? I was not without hopes, 
nor will I renounce them yet, that I have a place in your 
thoughts, perhaps in your affections." 

Agnes seemed scarcely to heed his words. There was 
no appearance of shyness or timidity in her looks or manner, 
no embaiTassment even : 

" Spotless without, and innocent within, 
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin." 

Her childlike countenance remained bright, open, and guile- 
less ; her eyes, mildly beaming, looked straight upon Fulvius's 
face with an earnest simplicity, that made him almost quail 
before her. She stood up now, with graceful dignity, as she 
replied : 

" Milk and honey exhaled from his lips, as the blood from 
his stricken cheek impressed itself on mine." t 

She is crazed, Fulvius was just beginning to think; when 
the inspired look of her countenance, and the clear brightness 
of her eye, as she gazed forwards towards some object seen by 
herself alone, overawed and subdued him. She recovered in 
an instant; and again he took heart. He resolved at once to 
pursue his demand. 

* " Posmt signum in faciem meam, ut nullum prster eum amatorem admit- 
tam." Office of St. Agnes. 

t " Mel et lac ex ejus ore suscepi, et sanguis ejus ornavit genas meas." Ibid. 



" Madam," he said, " you are trifling with one who 
sincerely admires and loves you. I know from the best 
authority, — yes, the best authority, — that of a mutual friend 
departed, that you have been pleased to think favorably of 
me, and to express yourself not opposed to my urging my 
claims to your hand. I now, therefore, seriously and earnestly 
solicit it. I may seem abrupt and informal, but I am sincere 
and warm." 

" Begone from me, food of corruption ! " she said with 
calm majesty; "for already a lover has secured my heart, 
for whom alone I keep my troth, to whom I intrust myself 
with undivided devotion ; one whose love is chaste, whose 
caress is pure, whose brides never put off their virginal 
wreaths." * 

Fulvius, who had dropped on his knee as he concluded 
his last sentence, and had thus drawn forth that severe 
rebuke, rose, tilled with spite and fury, at having been so 
completely deluded. " Is it not enough to be rejected," 
he said, " after having been encouraged, but must insult 
be heaped on me too ? and must I be told to my face that 
another has been before me to-day? — Sebastian, I suppose, 
again " 

"Who are you?" exclaimed an indignant voice behind 
him, " that dare to utter with disdain, the name of one 
whose honor is untarnished, and whose virtue is as unchal- 
lenged as his courage?" 

He turned round, and stood confronted with Fabiola, who, 
having" walked for some time about the garden, thought she 
would now probably find her cousin disengaged, and by her- 
self. She had come upon him suddenly, and had caught his 
last words. 

* " Discede a me pabulum mortis, quia jam ab alio amatore prseventa sum." 
"Ipsi soli servo Mem, ipsi me tota devotione committo." "Quem cum amavero 
casta sum, cum tetigero munda sum, cum accepero virgo sum." Hid. 



Fulvius was abashed, and remained silent. 

Fabiola, with a noble indignation, continued. "And 
who, too, are you, who, not content with having once 
thrust yourself into my kinswoman's house, to insult her. 




" Haughty Roman dame 1 thou Shalt bitterly rue this day and hour." 

presume now to intrude upon the privacy of her rural 
retreat?" 

"And who are you," retorted Fulvius, "who take upon 
yourself to be imperious mistress in another's house?" 

" One," replied the lady, " who, by allowing my cousin 
to meet you first at her table, and there discovering your 
designs upon an innocent child, feels herself bound in 



W6 



honor and duty to thwart them, and to shield her from 
them." 

She took Agnes by the hand, and was leading her away ; 
and Molossus required what he never remembered to have 
received before, but what he took delightedly, a gentle little 
tap, to keep him from more than growling; when Fulvius, 
gnashing his teeth, muttered audibly : 

" Haughty Roman dame ! thou shalt bitterly rue this 
day and hour. Thou shalt know and feel how Asia can 
revena;e.'" 



7^-^^ 



swio 




A Lamb betueen Wolves, emblematic of the Church, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Prfetextatus. 




CHAPTER XIII. 
THE EDICT. 

HE day being at length arrived for its publica- 

,-^ tion in Rome, Corvinus fully felt the importance 
of the commission intrusted to him, of affixing 

p in its proper place in the Forum, the edict of 
extermination against the Christians, or rather 

the sentence of extirpation of their very name. 

News had been received from Nicodemia, that a 
brave Christian soldier, named George, had torn down a simi- 
lar imperial degree, and had manfully suffered death for his 
boldness. Corvinus was determined that nothing of the sort 
should happen in Rome ; for he feared too seriously the conse- 
quences of such an occurrence to himself; he therefore took 
every precaution in his power. The edict had been written 
in large characters, upon sheets of parchment joined together; 
and these were nailed to a board, firmly supported by a pillar, 
against which it was hung, not far from the Puteal Libonis, 
the magistrate's chair in the Forum. This, however, was not 
done till the Forum was deserted, and night had well set in. 
It was thus intended that the edict should meet the eyes of 
the citizens early in the morning, and strike their minds with 
more tremendous efiect. 

To prevent the possibility of any nocturnal attemj^t to 
destroy the precious document, Corvinus, with much the same 
cunning precaution as was taken by the Jewish priests to 
prevent the Resurrection, obtained for a night-guard to the 



Forum, a company of the Pannonian cohort, a body comijosed 
of soldiers belonging to the fiercest races of the JSToith, Daci- 
ans, Pannonians, Sarmatians, and Germans, whose uncouth 
features, savage aspect, matted sandy hair, and bushy red 
moustaches, made them appear absolutely ferocious to Eoman 
eyes. These men could scarcely speak Latin, but were ruled 
by officers of their own countries, and formed, in the decline 
of the empire, the most faithful body-guard of the reigning 
tyrants, often their fellow-countrymen; for there was no 
excess too monstrous for them to commit, if duly commanded 
to execute it. 

A number of these savages, ever rough and ready, were 
distributed so as to guard every avenue of the Forum, with 
strict orders to pierce through, or hew down, any one who 
should attempt to pass without the watchword, or symholum. 
This was every night distributed by the general in command, 
through his tribunes and centurions, to all the troops. But 
to prevent all possibility of any Christian making use of it 
that night, if he should chance to discover it, the cunning 
Corvinus had one chosen which he felt sure no Christian 
would use. It was numen imperatorum; the "Divinity of the 
Emperors." 

The last thing which he did was to make his rounds, 
giving to each sentinel the strictest injunctions; and most 
minutely to the one whom he had placed close to the edict. 
This man had been chosen for his post on account of his rude 
strength and huge bulk, and the peculiar ferocity of his looks 
and character. Corvinus gave him the most rigid instruc- 
tions, how he was to spare nobody, but to prevent any one's 
interference with the sacred edict. He repeated to him again 
and again the watchword ; and left him, already half-stupid 
with sahaia or beer,* in the merest animal consciousness, that 

* " Est autem sabaia ex hordeo vel frumento m liquorera conversis panperti- 
nus in Illyrico potus." " Sabaia is the drink of the poor in Illyria, made of barley 



it was his business, not an unpleasant one, to spear, or sabre, 
some one or other before morning. The night was raw and 
gusty, with occasional sharp and slanting showers ; and the 
Dacian wrapped himself in his cloak, and walked up and 
down, occasionally taking a long pull at a flask concealed 
about him, containing a liquor said to be distilled from the 
wild cherries of the Thuringian forests ; and in the intervals 
muddily meditating, not on the wood or river, by which 
his young barbarians were at play, but how soon it would 
be time to cut the present emperor's throat, and sack the 
city. 

While all this was going on, old Diogenes and his hearty 
sons were in their poor house in the Suburra, not far off, mak- 
ing preparations for their frugal meal. They were interrupted 
by a gentle tap at the door, followed by the lifting of the 
latch, and the entrance of two young men, whom Diogenes at 
once recognized and welcomed. 

" Come in, my noble young masters ; how good of you thus 
to honor my poor dwelling ! I hardly dare oifer you our plain 
fare ; but if you will partake of it, you will indeed give us a 
Christian love-feast." 

" Thank you most kindly, father Diogenes," answered the 
elder of the two, Quadratus, Sebastian's sinewy centurion : 
" Pancratius and I have come expressly to sup with you. But 
not as yet ; we have some business in this part of the town, 
and after it we shall be glad to eat something. In the mean- 
time one of your youths can go out and cater for us. Come, 
we must have something good ; and I want you to cheer your- 
self with a moderate cup of generous wine." 

Saying this he gave his purse to one of the sons, with 
instructions to bring home some better provisions than he 
knew the simple family usually enjoyed. They sat down ; 

or wheat, transformed into a liquid." Ammian. Marcellinus, lib. xxvi. 8, p. 423, 
ed. Lips. 



dfe 



®4rb. 



and Pancratius, by way of saying something, addressed the 
old man. " Good Diogenes, I have heard Sebastian say that 
you remember seeing the glorious Deacon Laurentius die for 
Christ. Tell me something about him." 

" With pleasure," answered the old man. " It is now nearly 
forty-five years since it happened,* and as I was older then 
than you are now, you may suppose I remember all quite dis- 
tinctly. He was indeed a beautiful youth to look at : so mild 
and sweet, so fair and graceful ; and his speech was so gentle, 
so soft, especially when speaking to the poor. How they all 
loved him ! I followed him everywhere ; I stood by as the 
venerable Pontiff Sixtus was going to death, and Laurentius 
met him, and so tenderly reproached him, just as a son might 
a father, for not allowing him to be his companion in the sacri- 
fice of himself, as he had ministered to him in the sacrifice of 
our Lord's body and blood." 

"Those were splendid times, Diogenes, were they not?" 
interrupted the youth ; " how degenerate we are now ! What 
a different race ! Are we not, Quadratus?" 

The rough soldier smiled at the generous sincerity of his 
complaint, and bid Diogenes go on. 

" I saw him too as he distributed the rich plate of the 
Church to the poor. We have never had any thing so splendid 
since. There were golden lamps and candlesticks, censors, 
chalices, and patens, t besides an immense quantity of silver 
melted down, and distributed to the blind, the lame, and the 
indigent." 

"But tell me," asked Pancratius, "how did he endure his 
last dreadful torment? It must have been frightful." 

" I saw it all," answered the old fossor, " and it would 
have been intolerably frightful in another. He had been first 
placed on the rack, and variously tormented, and he had not 

* A. D. 258. 

f Prudentius, in his hymn on St. Laurence. 



uttered a groan; when the judge ordered that horiid bed, or 
gridiron, to be prepared and heated. To look at his tender 
flesh blistering and breaking over the fire, and deeply scored 
with red burning gashes that cut to the bone where the iron 
bars went across ; to see the steam, thick as from a cauldron, 
rise from his body, and hear the fire hiss beneath him, as he 
melted away into it ; and every now and then to observe the 
tremulous quivering that crept over the surface of his skin, 
the living motion which the agony gave to each separate 
muscle, and the sharp spasmodic twitches which convulsed, 
and gradually contracted, his limbs ; all this, I own, was the 
most harrowing spectacle I have ever beheld in all my life. 
But to look into his countenance was to forget all this. His 
head was raised up from the burning body, and stretched out, 
as if fixed on the contemplation of some most celestial vision, 
like that of his fellow-deacon Stephen. His face glowed 
indeed with the heat below, and the perspiration flowed down 
it ; but the light from the fire shining upwards, and passing 
through his golden locks, created a glory round his beautiful 
head and countenance, which made him look as if already in 
heaven. And every feature, serene and sweet as ever, was so 
impressed with an eager, longing look, accompanying the 
upward glancing of his eye, that you would willingly have 
changed places with him." 

"That I would," again broke in Pancratius, "and, as soon 
as God pleases ! 1 dare not think that I could stand what he 
did ; for he was indeed a noble and heroic Levite, while I am 
only a weak imperfect boy. But do you not think, dear 
Quadratus, that strength is given in that hour, proportionate 
to our trials, whatever they may be? You, I know, would 
stand any thing ; for you are a fine stout soldier, accustomed 
to toil and wounds. But as for me, I have only a willing 
heart to give. Is that enough, think you ? " 

" Quite, quite, my dear boy," exclaimed the centurion, full 



of emotion, and looking tenderly on the youth, who with 
glistening eyes, having risen from his seat, had placed his 
hands upon the officer's shouldei-s. " God will give you 
strength, as He has already given you courage. But we 
must not forget our night's work. Wrap yourself well up in 
your cloak, and bring your toga quite over your head ; so ! It 
is a wet and bitter night. Now, good Diogenes, put more 
wood on the fire, and let us find supper ready on our return. 
We shall not be long absent; and just leave the door ajar." 

" Go, go, my sons," said the old man, " and God speed 
you! whatever you are about, I am sure it is something 
praiseworthy." 

Quadratus stuirlily drew his chlamys, or military cloak, 
around him, and the two youths plunged into the dark lanes 
of the Suburra, and took the direction of the Forum. While 
they were absent, the door was opened, with the well-known 
salutation of "thanks to God;" and Sebastian entered, and 
inquired anxiously if Diogenes had seen any thing of the two 
young men ; for he had got a hint of what they were going to 
do. He was told they were expected in a few moments. 

A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed, when hasty 
steps were heard approaching; the door was pushed open, 
and was as quickly shut, and then fast barred, behind Quad- 
ratus and Pancratius. 

" Here it is," said the latter, producing, with a hearty 
laugh, a bundle of crumpled parchment. 

" What ? " asked all eagerly. 

" Why, the grand decree, of course," answered Pancratius, 
with boyish glee ; " look here, ' Domini nostri Diocletianus et 
Maximlanus, invicti, seniores Augusti, patres Imperatorum et 
C^SARUM,' * and so forth. Here it goes ! " And he thrust it 
into the blazing fire, while the stalwart sons of Diogenes threw 

* " Our lords Dioclesian and Maximian, the unconquered, elder Augusti, 
fathers of the Emperors and Caesars." 




'Here it goes!" And he thrust it into the blazing fire. 



a faggot over it to keep it down, and drown its crackling. 
There it frizzled, and writhed, and cracked, and shrunk, tirst 
one letter or word coming up, then another; tirst an emperor's 
praise, and then an anti-Christian blasphemy; till all had 
subsided into a black ashy mass. 

And what else, or more, would those be in a few years who 
had issued that proud document, when their corpses should 
have been burnt on a pile of cedar-wood and spices, and their 
handful of ashes be scraped together, hardly enough to fill a 
gilded urn ? And what also, in very few years more, would 
that heathenism be, which it was issued to keep alive, but a 
dead letter at most, and as worthless a heap of extinguished 
embers as lay on that heai'th ? And the very empire which 
these " unconquered " Augusti were bolstering wp by cruelty 
and injustice, how in a few centuries would it resemble that 
annihilated decree ? the monuments of its grandeur lying in 
ashes, or in ruins, and proclaiming that there is no true Lord 
but one stronger than Caesars, the Lord of lords; and that 
neither counsel nor strength of man shall prevail against Him. 

Something like this did Sebastian think, perhaps, as he 
gazed abstractedly on the expiring embers of the pompous 
and cruel edict which they had torn down, not for a wanton 
frolic, but because it contained blasphemies against God and 
His holiest truths. They knew that if they should be discov- 
ered, tenfold tortui-es would be their lot; but Christians in 
those days, when they contemplated and pi-epared for martyr- 
dom, made no calculation on that head. Death for Christ, 
whether quick and easy, or lingeiing and painful, was the end 
for which they looked ; and, like brave soldiers going to battle, 
they did not speculate where a shaft or a sword might strike 
them, whether a death-blow would at once stun them out of 
existence, or they should have to writhe for hours upon the 
ground, mutilated or pierced, to die by inches among the heaps 
of unheeded slain. 



mrs 



Sebastian soon recovered, and had hardly the heart to 
reprove the perpetrators of this deed. In truth, it had its 
lidiculous side, and he was inclined to laugh at the morrow's 
dismay. This view he gladly took, for he saw Pancratius 
watched his looks with some trepidation, and his centurion 
looked a little disconcerted. So, after a hearty laugh, they sat 
down cheerfully to their meal ; for it was not midnight, and 
the hour for commencing the fast, preparatory to receiving the 
holy Eucharist, was not arrived. Quadratus's object, besides 
kindness, in this arrangement, was partly, that if surpi'ised, a 
reason for their being there might be apparent, partly to keep 
up the spirits of his younger companion and of Diogenes's 
household, if alarmed at the bold deed just performed. But 
there was no appearance of any such feeling. The conversa- 
tion soon turned upon recollections of Diogenes's youth, and 
the good old fervent times, as Pancratius would persist in 
calling them. Sebastian saw his friend home, and then took 
a round, to avoid the Forum in seeking his own abode. If 
any one had seen Pancratius that night, when alone in his 
chamber preparing to retire to rest, he would have seen him 
every now and then almost laughing at some strange but 
pleasant adventure. 




A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs. 



nv- 



CHAPTER XIV. 




% 



THE DISCOVERY. 

, T the first dawn of morning, Corvinus was up ; 
and, notwithstanding the gloominess of the 
day, proceeded straight to the Fornm. He 
found his outposts quite undisturbed, and 
hastened to the principal object of his care. 
It would be useless to attempt describing his 
astonishment, his rage, his fury, when he saw 
the blank board, with only a fcAv shreds of 
parchment left, round the nails ; and beside it 
standing, in unconscious stolidity, his Dacian sen- 
tinel. 

He would have darted at his throat, like a tiger, if he had 
not seen, in the barbarian's twinkling eye, a sort of hyena 
squint, which told him he had better not. But he broke out 
at once into a passionate exclamation : 

"Sirrah! how has the edict disappeared? Tell me 
directly ! " 

"Softly, softly, Herr Kornweiner," answered the imper- 
turbable Northern. " There it is as you left it in my charge." 
" Where, you fool? Come and look at it." 
The Dacian went to his side, and for the first time con- 
fronted the board ; and after looking at it for some moments, 
exclaimed : " Well, is not that the board you hung up last 
night?" 



"Yes, you blockhead, but there was writing on it, which 
is gone. That is what you had to guard." 

"Why, look you, captain, as to writing, you see I know 
nothing, having never been a scholar ; but as it was raining 
all night, it may have been washed out." 

"And as it was blowing, I suppose the parchment on 
which it was written was blown off ? " 

"No doubt, Herr Kornweiner; you are quite right." 

" Come, sir, this is no joking matter. Tell me, at once, 
who came here last night." 

"Why, two of them came." 

"Two of what?" 

" Two wizards, or goblins, or worse." 

"None of that nonsense for me." The Dacian's eye 
flashed drunkenly again. " Well, tell me, Arminius, what 
sort of people they were, and what they did." 

"Why, one of them was but a stripling, a boy, tall and 
thin ; who went round the pillar, and I suppose must have 
taken away what you miss, while I was busy with the other." 

" And what of him ? What was he like ? " 

The soldier opened his mouth and eyes, and stared at 
Corvinus for some moments, then said, with a sort of stupid 
solemnity, "What was he like? Why, if he was not Thor 
himself, he wasn't far from it. I never felt such strength." 

" What did he do to show it? " 

" He came up first, and began to chat quite friendly, asked 
me if it was not very cold, and that sort of thing. At last I 
remembered that I had to run through any one that came 
near me " 

"Exactly," interrupted Corvinus; "and why did you not 
doit?" 

" Only because he wouldn't let me. I told him to be off, 
or I should spear him, and drew back and stretched out my 
javelin ; when in the quietest manner, but I don't know how, 



he twisted it out of my hand, broke it over his knee, as if it 
had been a mountebank's wooden sword, and dashed the iron- 
headed piece fast into the ground, where you see it, fifty yards 
off." 

" Then why did you not rush on him with your sword, and 
despatch him at once ? But where is your sword ? it is not 
in your scabbard." 

The Dacian, with a stupid grin, pointed to the roof of the 
neighboring basilica, and said : " There, don't you see it shin- 
ing on the tiles, in the morning light?" Corvinus looked, 
and there indeed he saw what appeared like such an object, but 
he could hardly believe his own eyes. 

" How did it get there, you stupid booby? " he asked. 

The soldier twisted his moustache in an ominous way, 
which made Corvinus ask again more civilly, and then he was 
answered : 

" He, or it, whatever it was, without any apparent effort, 
by a sort of conjuring, whisked it out of my hand, and up 
where you see it, as easily as I could cast a quoit a dozen yards." 

"And then?" 

" And then, he and the boy, who came from round the 
pillar, walked off in the dark." 

"What a strange story ! " muttered Corvinus to himself; 
"yet there are proofs of the fellow's tale. It is not every one 
who could have performed that feat. But pray, sirrah, why 
did you not give the alarm, and rouse the other guards to 
pursuit?" 

" First, Master Kornweiner, because, in my country, we 
will fight any living men, but we do not choose to pursue 
hobgoblins. And, secondly, what was the use? I saw the 
board that you gave into my care all safe and sound." 

" Stupid bai'barian ! " growled Corvinus, but well within 
his teeth ; then added : " This business will go hard with you ; 
you know it is a capital offence." 



w 



"What is?" 

" Why, to let a man come up and speak to you, without 
giving the watchword." 

" Gently, captain ; who says he did not give it? I never 
said so." 

" But did he, though ? Then it could be no Christian." 

•' Oh yes, he came up, and said quite plainly, ' Nomen 
Imperatorum.'' " * 

"What?" roared out Corvinus. 

" Nomen Imperatorum.^' 

" ' Numen Imperatorum ' was the watchword," shrieked the 
enraged Roman. 

" Nomen or Numen, it's all the same, I suppose. A letter 
can't make any difference. You call me Arminius, and I call 
myself Hermann, and they mean the same. How should / 
know your nice points of language? " 

Corvinus was enraged at himself; for he saw how much 
better he w^ould have gained his ends, by putting a sharp, 
intelligent prsetorian on duty, instead of a sottish, savage 
foreigner. "Well," he said, in the worst of huuiors, "you 
will have to answer to the emperor for all this ; and you know 
he is not accustomed to pass over offences." 

" Look you now, Herr Krummbeiner," returned the soldier, 
with a look of sly stolidity ; "as to that, we are pretty well in 
the same boat." (Corvinus turned pale, for he knew this was 
true.) "And you must contrive something to save me, if you 
want to save yourself. It was you the emperor made respon- 
sible, for the what-d'ye-call-it ? — that board." 

"You are right, my friend; I must make it out that a 
strong body attacked you, and killed you at your post. So 
shut yourself up in quarters for a few days, and you shall have 
plenty of beer, till the thing blows over." 

The soldier went off, and concealed himself. A few days 

* The name of the Emperor. 



c:^ 



a- 



after, the dead body of a Dacian, evidently murdered, was 
washed on the banks of the Tiber. It was supposed he had 
fallen in some drunken row; and no further trouble was 
taken about it. The fact was indeed so ; but Corvinus could 
have given the best account of the transaction. Before, 
however, leaving the ill-omened spot in the Forum, he had 
carefully examined the ground, for any trace of the daring 
act ; when he picked up, close under the place of the edict, a 
knife, which he was sure he had seen at school, in possession 
of one of his companions. He treasured it up, as an imple- 
ment of future vengeance, and hastened to provide another 
copy of the decree 




An Emblem of Paradise, found in the Catacombs. 



CHAPTER XV 




EXPLANATIONS. 

^"HEJSr morning had fairly broken, crowds 
streamed, from every side, into the Forum, 
curious to read the tremendous edict so 
long menaced. But when they found 
only a bare board, there was a universal 
uproar. Some admired the spirit of the 
Christians, so generally reckoned cow- 
ardly ; others were indignant at the audacity of such an act ; 
some ridiculed the officials concerned in the proclamation; 
others were angry that the expected sport of the day might be 
delayed. 

At an early hour the places of public fashionable resort 
were all occupied with the same theme. In the great Anto- 
nian Thermag a group of regular frequenters were talking it 
over. There were Scaurus the lawyer, and Proculus, and 
Fulvius, and the philosopher Calpurnius, who seemed very 
busy with some musty volumes, and several others. 

" What a strange affair this is, about the edict ! " said one. 
" Say rather, what a treasonable outrage against the divine 
emperors ! " answered Fulvius. 

" How was it done ?" asked a third. 

"Have you not heard," said Proculus, "that the Dacian 
guard stationed at the Puteal was found dead, with twenty- 
seven poniard-wounds on him, nineteen of which would have 
sufficed each bv itself to cause death ? " 



^:l 



"No, that is quite a false report," interrupted Scaurus; 
" it was not done by violence, but entirely by witchcraft. Two 
women came up to the soldier, who drove his lance at one, and 
it passed clean through her, and stuck in the ground on the 
other side, without making any wound in her. He then 
hacked at the other with his sword, but he might as well have 
struck at marble. She then threw a pinch of powder upon 
him, and he flew into the air, and was found, asleep and 
unhurt, this morning, on the roof of the JEmilian basilica. A 
friend of mine, who was out early, saw the ladder up, by 
which he had been brought down." 

"Wonderful!" many exclaimed. "What extraordinary 
people these Christians must be ! " 

"I don't believe a word of it," observed Proculus. "There 
is no such power in magic ; and certainly I don't see why 
these wretched men should possess it more than their betters. 
Come, Calpurnius," he continued, "put by that old book, and 
answer these questions. I learnt more, one day after dinner, 
about these Christians from you, than I had heard in all my 
life before. What a wonderful memory you must have, to 
remember so accurately the genealogy and history of that 
barbarous people! Is what Scaurus has just told us possible, 
or not?" 

Calpurnius delivered himself, with great pompousness, as 
follows : 

"There is no reason to suppose such a thing impossible; 
for the power of magic has no bounds. To prepare a powder 
that would make a man fly in the air, it would be only neces- 
sary to find some herbs in which air predominates more than 
the other three elements. Such for instance are pulse, or 
lentils, according to Pythagoras. These, being gathered when 
the sun is in Libra, the nature of which is to balance even 
heavy things in the air, at the moment of conjunction with 
Mercury, a winged power as you know, and properly energized 



by certain inysterioas words, by a skilful magician, then 
reduced to powder in a mortar made out of an aerolite, or stone 
that had flown up into the sky, and come down again, would 
no doubt, when rightly used, enable, or force a person to fly 
up into the air. It is well known, indeed, that the Thessalian 
witches go at pleasure through the clouds, from place to place, 
which must be done by means of some such charm. 

" Then, as to the Christians ; you will remember, excellent 
Proculus, that in the account to which you have done me the 
honor to allude, which was at the deified Fabius's table, if I 
remember right, I mentioned that the sect came originally 
from Chaldtea, a country always famous for its occult arts. 
But we have a most important evidence bearing on this 
uiatter, recorded in history. It is quite certain, that here in 
Rome, a certain Simon, who was sometimes called Simon 
Peter, and at other times Simon Magus, actually in public 
flew up high into the air ; but his charm having slipped out 
of his belt, he fell and broke both his legs ; for which reason 
he was obliged to be crucified with his head downwards." 

"Then are all Christians necessarily sorcerers?" asked 
Scaurus. 

"Necessarily; it is part of their superstition. They 
believe their priests to have most extraordinary power over 
nature. Thus, for example, they think they can bathe the 
bodies of people in water, and their souls acquire thereby 
wonderful gifts and superiority, should they be slaves, over 
their masters, and the divine emperors themselves." 

" Dreadful ! " all cried out. 

"Then, again," resumed Calpurnius, "we all know what a 
frightful crime some of them committed last night, in tearing 
down a supreme edict of the imperial deities ; and even sup- 
pose (which the gods avert) that they carried their treasons 
still further, and attempted their sacred lives, they believe 
that they have only to go to one of those priests, own the 



crime, and ask for pardon ; and, if he gives it, they consider 
themselves as perfectly guiltless." 

" Fearful ! " joined in the chorus. 

"Such a doctrine," said Scaurus, "is incompatible with 
the safety of the state. A man who thinks he can be pardoned 
by another man of every ciime, is capable of conniiitting any." 

"And that, no doubt," observed Fulvius, "is the cause of 
this new and terrible edict against them. After what Calpur- 
nius has told us about these desperate men, nothing can be 
too severe against them." 

Fnlvius had been keenly eyeing Sebastian, who had entered 
during the conversation; -and now pointedly addressed him. 

"And you, no doubt, think so too, Sebastian ; do you not? " 

" I think," he calmly replied, " that if the Christians be 
such as Calpurnius describes them, infamous sorcerers, they 
desei've to be exterminated from the face of the earth. But 
even so, I would gladly give them one chance of escape." 

"And what is that? " sneeringly asked Fulvius. 

" That no one should be allowed to join in destroying them, 
who could not prove himself freer from crime than they. I 
would have no one raise his hand against them, who cannot 
show that he has never been an adulterer, an extortioner, a 
deceiver, a drunkard, a bad husband, father, or child, a profli- 
gate, or a thief. Foi- with being any of these, no one charges 
the poor Christians."* 

Fulvius winced under the catalogue of vices, and still more 
under the indignant, but serene, glance of Sebastian. But at 
the word " thief," he fairly leapt. Had the soldier seen him pick 
up the scarf in Fabius's house ? Be it so or not, the dislike he 
had taken to Sebastian, at their first meeting, had ripened into 
hatred at their second ; and hatred in that heart, was only writ- 
ten in blood. He had only intensity now to add to that feeling. 

* See Luciau's address to the judge, upon Ptolemaeus's condemnation, in the 
beginning of St. Justin's Second Apology, or Ruinart, vol. i. p. 120. 



Sebastian went out ; and his thoughts got vent in familiar 
words of prayer. "How long, Lord! how long? What 
hopes can we entertain of the conversion of many to the truth, 
still less of the conversion of this great empire, so long as we 
find even honest and learned men believing at once every 
calumny spoken against us ; treasuring up, from age to age, 
every fable and fiction about us ; and refusing even to inquire 
into our doctrines, because they have made up their minds 
that they are false and contemptible? " 

He spoke aloud, believing himself alone, when a sweet 
voice answered him at his side: "Good youth, whoever thou 
art that speakest thus, and methinks I know thy voice, remem- 
ber that the Son of God gave light to the dark eye of the body, 
by spreading thereon clay; which, in man's hands, would have 
only blinded the seeing. Let us be as dust beneath His feet, 
if we wish to become His means of enlightening the eyes of 
men's souls. Let us be trampled on a little longer in patience ; 
perhaps even from our ashes may come out the spark to blaze." 

"Thank you, thank you, Cascilia," said Sebastian, "for 
your just and kind rebuke. Whither tripping on so gaily on 
this first day of danger? " 

" Do you not know that I have been named guide of the 
cemetery of Callistus ? 1 am going to take possession. Pray, 
that I may be the first flower of this coming spring." 

And she passed on, singing blithely. But Sebastian 
begged her to stay one moment. 




gram of Christ, found in the Catacombs. 




CHAPTER XVI. 
''^ THE WOLF IN THE FOLD. 

^FTER the adventures of the night, our 
youths had not much time for rest. 
Long before daybreak the Christians 
had to be up, and assemble at their 
several titles, so as to disperse before 
day. It was to be their last meeting 
there. The oratories were to be closed, 
and divine worship had to begin, from that 
day, in the subterranean churches of the cemeteries. It 
could not, indeed, be expected that all would be able to travel 
with safety, even on the Sunday, some miles beyond the 
gate.* A great privilege was, consequently, granted to the 
faithful, at such times of trouble, that of jDreserving the 
blessed Eucharist in their houses, and communicating them- 
selves privately in the morning, "before taking other food," 
as TertuUian expresses it.t 

The faithful felt, not as sheep going to the slaughter, not 
as criminals pi-eparing for execution, but as soldiers arming 
for fight. Their weapons, their food, their strength, their 
courage, were all to be found in their Lord's table. Even the 
lukewarm and the timid gathered fresh spirit from the bread 
of life. In churches, as yet may be seen in the cemeteries, 

* There was one cemetery called ad sextum Philip2n, which is supposed to 
have been situated six miles fi-om Rome; but maiiy were three miles from the 
heart of the city. 

f Ad Uxorem, lib. ii. c. 5. 



were chairs placed for the penitentiaries, before whom the 
sinner knelt, and confessed his sins, and received absolution. 
In moments like this the penitential code was relaxed, and 
the terms of public expiation shortened ; and the whole 
night had been occupied by the zealous clergy in preparing 
their flocks for, to many, their last public communion on 
earth. 

"We need not remind our readers that the office then per- 
formed was essentially, and in many details, the same as 
they daily witness at the Catholic altar. Not only was it 
considered, as now, to be the Sacrifice of Our Lord's Body and 
Blood, not only were the oblation, the consecration, the com- 
munion alike, but many of the prayers were identical; so 
that the Catholic hearing them recited, and still more the 
priest reciting them, in the same language as the Koman 
Church of the Catacombs spoke, may feel himself in active 
and living communion with the martyrs who celebrated, and 
the martyrs who assisted at, those sublime mysteries. 

On the occasion which we are describing, when the time 
came for giving the kiss of peace — a genuine embrace of 
brotherly love — sobs could be heard and bursts of tears ; for 
it was to many a parting salutation. Many a youth clung to 
his father's neck, scarcely knowing whether that day might 
not sever them, till they waved their palm-branches together 
in heaven. And how would mothers press their daughters to 
their bosom, in the fervor of that new love which fear of long 
separation enkindled! Then came the communion, more 
solemn than usual, more devout, more hushed to stillness. 
"The Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ," said the priest to each, 
as he offered him the sacred food. "Amen," replied the 
receiver, with thrilling accents of faith and love. Then 
extending in his hand an ovarium, or white linen cloth, he 
received in it a provision of the Bread of Life, sufficient to last 
him till some future feast. This was most carefully and rev- 




The Blessed Eucharist, in the Early Ages of the Church. 
337 



erently folded, and laid in the bosom, wrapped up often in 
another and more precious covering, or even placed in a gold 
locket.* It was now that, for the first time, poor Syra regret- 
ted the loss of her rich embroidered scarf, which would long 
before have been given to the poor, had she not studiously 
reserved it for such an occasion, and such a use. ISTor had 
her mistress been able to prevail upon her to accept any 
objects of value, without a stipulation that she might dispose 
of them as she liked, that was in charitable gifts. 

The various assemblies had broken up before the discov- 
ery of the violated edict. But they may rather be said to 
have adjourned to the cemeteries. The frequent meetings of 
Torquatus with his two heathen confederates in the baths of 
Caracalla had been narrowly watched by the capsarius and 
his wife, as we have already remarked; and Victoria had 
overheard the plot to make an inroad into the cemetery of 
Callistus on the day after publication. The Christians, there- 
fore, considered themselves safer the first day, and took 
advantage of the circumstance to inaugurate, by solemn offices, 
the churches of the catacombs, which, after some years' 
disuse, had been put into good repair and order by the fos- 
sores, had been in some places repainted, and furnished with 
all requisites for divine worship. 

But Corvinus, after getting over his first dismay, and hav- 
ing as speedily as possible another, though not so grand, a 
copy of the edict affixed, began better to see the dismal proba- 
bilities of serious consequences from the wrath of his imperial 
master. The Dacian was right : he would have to answer for 
the loss. He felt it necessary to do something that very day, 
which might wipe off the disgrace he had incurred, before 

* When the Vatican cemetery was explored, in 1571, there were found in tombs 
two small square golden boxes, with a ring at the top of the lid. These very 
ancient sacred vessels are considered by Bottari to have been used for carrying the 
Blessed Eucharist round the neck (Roma SuMerranea, torn. i. fig. 11) ; and Pelli- 
cia confirms this by many arguments {ChristiaiKB Eccl. Politia, tom. iii. p. 20). 



again meeting the emperor's look. He determined to antici- 
pate the attack on the cemetery, intended for the following 
day. 

He repaired, therefore, while it was still early, to the 
baths, where Fulvius, ever jealously watchful over Torquatus, 
kept him in expectation of Corvinus's coming to hold council 
with them. The worthy trio concerted their plans. Corvinus, 
guided by the reluctant apostate, at the head of a chosen 
band of soldiers who were at his disposal, had to make an 
incursion into the cemetery of Callistus, and drive, or drag, 
thence the clergy and piincipal Christians; while Fulvius, 
remaining outside with another company, would intercept them 
and cut off all retreat, securing the most important prizes, and 
especially the Pontiff and superior clergy, whom his visit to 
the ordination would enable him to recognize. This was his 
plan. " Let fools," he said to himself, " act the part of ferrets 
in the warren ; I will be the sportsman outside." 

In the meantime Victoria overheard sufficient to make lier 
very busy dusting and cleaning, in the retired room where 
they were consulting, without appearing to listen. She told 
all to Cucumio ; and he, after much scratching of his head, hit 
upon a notable plan for conveying the discovered information 
to the proper quarter. 

Sebastian, after his early attendance on divine worship, 
unable, from his duties at the palace to do more, had pro- 
ceeded, according to almost universal custom, to the baths, to 
invigorate his limbs by their healthy refreshment, and also to 
remove from himself the suspicion, which his absence on that 
morning might have excited. While he was thus engaged, the 
old capsararius, as he had had himself rattlingly called in his 
ante-posthumous inscription, wrote on a slip of parchment all 
that his wife had heard about the intention of an immediate 
assault, and of getting possession of the holy Pontiff's person. 
This he fastened with a pin or needle to the inside of Sebas- 



tian's tunic, of which he had charge, as he durst not speak to 
him in the j^resence of others. 

The officer, after his bath, went into the hall where the 
events of the morning were being discussed, and where Fulvius 
was waiting, till Corvinus should tell him that all was ready. 
Upon going out, disgusted, he felt himself, as he walked, 
pricked by something on his chest : he examined his garments, 
and found the paper. It was written in about as elegant a 
latinity as Cucumio's epitaph, but he made it out sufficiently 
to consider it necessary for him to turn his steps towards the 
Via Appia, instead of the Palatine, and convey the important 
information to the Christians assembled in the cemetery. 

Having, however, found a fleeter and surer messenger than 
himself, in the poor blind girl, who would not attract the same 
attention, he stopped her, gave her the note, after adding a 
few words to it, with the pen and ink which he carried, and 
bade her bear it, as speedily as possible, to its destination. 
But, in fact, he had hai'dly left the baths, when Fulvius 
received information that Corvinus and his troop were by that 
time hastening across the fields, so as to avoid suspicion, 
towards the appointed spot. He mounted his horse imme- 
diately, and went along the high-road; while the Christian 
soldier, in a by-way, was instructing liis blind messenger. 

When we accompanied Diogenes and his party through 
the catacombs, we stopped short of the subterranean church, 
because Severus would not let it be betrayed to Torquatus. 
In this the Christian congi-egation was now assembled, under 
its chief pastor. It was constructed on the principle com- 
mon to all such excavations, for we can hardly call them 
edifices. 

The reader may imagine two of the cuMcnla or chambers, 
which we have before described, placed one on each side of a 
gallery or passage, so that their doors, or rather wide entrances, 
are opposite one another. At the end of one will be found an 



rfcHb 



w 



arcosolmm or altar-tomb : and the probable conjecture is, that 
in this division the men, under charge of the ostiarii* and in 
the other the women, under the care of the deaconesses, were 







Hnins of the has 1 ca of bt Alexander on the Nomentan Way From Roller b Catacombe'^ de Home." 

assembled. This division of the sexes at divine worship was 
a matter of jealous discipline in the early Church. 

Often these subterranean churches were not devoid of 
architectural decoration. The walls, esjjecially near the altar, 
were plastered and painted, and half columns, with their bases 
and capitals, not ungracefully cut out of the sandstone, divided 

* Door-keepers, — an oflSce constituting a lesser order in the Church. 





Confirmation, in the Early Ages of the Church. 



5;iS&-.:SU7i:;^B^*ffi«5S!?S6«S?Ka'S<K»^^ 



the different parts or ornamented the entrances. In one 
instance, indeed in the chief basilica yet discovered in the 
cemetery of Callistus, there is a chamber without any altar, 
communicating with the church by means of a funnel-shaped 
opening, piercing the earthen wall, here 
some twelve feet thiclc, and entering the 
chamber, which is at a lower level, at 
the height of five or six feet, in a slant- 
ing direction ; so that all that was 
spoken in the church could be heard, 
yet nothing that was done there could 
be seen, by those assembled in the cham- 
ber. This is very naturally supposed to 
have been the place reserved for the class 
of public penitents called audientes or 
hearers, and for the catechumens, not 
yet initiated by baptism. 

The basilica, in which the Christians 
were assembled, when Sebastian sent his 
message, was like the one discovered in 
the cemetery of St. Agnes. Each of the 
two divisions was double, that is, con- 
sisted of two large chambers, slightly 
separated by half-coluuins, in what we 
may call the women's church, and by flat 
pilasters in the men's, one of these sur- 
faces having in it a small niche for an 
image or lamp. But the most remark- 
able feature of this basilica is a further prolongation of the 
structure, so as to give it a chancel or presbytery. This is 
about the size of half each other division, from which it is 
separated by two columns against the wall, as well as by its 
lesser height, after the manner of modern chancels. For while 
each portion of each division has first a lofty-arched tomb in 




A. Choir, or chancel, with episcopal 
chair (rt) and benches for the 
clergy {bb). 

B. Division for the nien, separated 

from the choir by two pillars, 
supportins: an arch. 

C. Corridor of the catacomb, aflford- 

iug entrance to the church. 

D. Division for the women, with a 

tomb in it. 
Each portion is subdivided by pro- 
jections in the wall. 



Ma 



its wall, and four or five tiers of graves above it, the elevation 
of the chancel is not much greater than that of those arcosolia 
or altar-tombs. At the end of the chancel, against the middle 
of the wall, is a chair with back and arms cut out of the solid 
stone, and from each side proceeds a stone bench, which thus 




A Cathedra or Epiecopal Chair in the Catacomb of Saint Aenee. 



occupies the end and two sides of the chancel. As the table 
of the arched-tomb behind the chair is higher than the back 
of the throne, and as this is immovable, it is clear that the 
divine mysteries could not have been celebrated upon it. A 
portable altar must, therefore, have been placed before the 
throne, in an isolated position in the middle of the sanctuary : 
and this, tradition tell us, was the wooden altar of St. Peter. 
We have thus the exact arrangements to be found in the 



churches built after the peace, and yet to be seen in all the 
ancient basilicas in Rome — the episcopal chair in the centre 
of the apse, the presbytery or seat for the clergy on either 
hand, and the altar between the throne and the people. The 
early Christians thus anticipated underground, or rather gave 
the i^rinciples which directed, the forms of ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture. 

It was in such a basilica, then, that we are to imagine the 
faithful assembled, when Corvinus and his satellites arrived at 
the entrance of the cemetery. This was the way which Tor- 
quatus knew, leading down by steps from a half-ruinous 
building, choked up with faggots. They found the coast clear, 
and immediately made their arrangements. Fulvius, with one 
body of ten or twelve men, lurked to guard the entrance, 
and seize all who attempted to come out or go in. Corvinus, 
with Torquatus and a smaller body of eight, prejDared to 
descend. 

"I don't like this underground work," said an old, grey- 
bearded legionary. "I am a soldier, and not a rat-catcher. 
Biing me my man into the light of day, and I will fight him 
hand to hand, and foot to foot ; but I have no love for being 
stifled or poisoned, like vermin in a drain." 

This speech found favor with the soldiers. One said, 
" There may be hundreds of these skulking Christians down 
there, and we are little more than half a dozen." 

"This is not the sort of work we receive our pay for," 
added another. 

"It's their sorceries I care for," continued a third, " and 
not their valor." 

It required all the eloquence of Fulvius to screw up their 
resolution. He assured them there was nothing to fear ; that 
the cowardly Christians would run before them like hares, and 
that they would find more gold and silver in the church than 
a year's pay would give them. Thus encouraged, they went 



WVTl 



groping down to the bottom of the stairs. They could distin- 
guish lamps at intervals, stretching into the gloomy length 
before them. 

" Hush ! " said one, " listen to that voice ! " 




An Altar with its Episcopal Chair, in the Cemetery of Saint Agnes. 



From far away its accents came, softened by distance, but 
they were the notes of a fresh youthful voice, that quailed not 
with fear ; so clear, that the very words could be caught, as it 
intoned the following verses : 

" Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea ; quem 
timebo ? 



c:^ 







'*5^ 



■..^^ 




w 



" Dominus protector vita? meae ; a quo trepidabo ? " * 
Then came a full chorus of voices, singing, like the sound 
of many waters : 

"Dum appropriant super me nocentes, ut edant carnes 
meas; qui tribulant me, inimici mei, ipsi intirmati sunt et 
ceciderunt." t 

A mixture of shame and anger seized on the assailants as 
they heard these words of calm confidence and defiance. The 
single voice again sang forth, but in apparently fainter 
accents : 

"Si consistant adversum me castra, non timebit cor 
meum." I 

"I thought I knew that voice," muttered Corvinus. "I 
ought to know it out of a thousand. It is that of my bane, 
the cause of all last night's curse and this day's trouble. It 
is that of Pancratius, who pulled down the edict. On, on, my 
men ; any reward for him, dead or alive ! " 

" But, stop," said one, " let us light our torches." 

" Hark ! " said a second, while they were engaged in this 
operation; "what is that strange noise, as if of scratching 
and hammering at a distance? I have heard it for some 
time." 

"And, look!" added a third; "the distant lights have 
disappeared, and the music has ceased. We are certainly 
discovered." 

" No danger," said Torquatus, putting on a boldness which 
he did not feel. " That noise only comes from those old moles, 
Diogenes and his sons, busy preparing graves for the Christians 
we shall seize." 

* " The Lord is my light and my salvation : whom shall I fear ? The Lord 
is the protector of my life : of whom shall I he afraid ?" 

f " While the wicked draw nigh me, to eat my flesh, my enemies that trouble 
me have themselves been weakened and have fallen." 

I " If armies in camp shall stand together against me, my heart shall not 
fear." — Ps. xxvi. 



Torquatus had in vain advised the troop not to bring 
torches, but to provide themselves with such lamps as we see 
Diogenes rej)resented carrying, in his picture, or waxen tapers, 
which he had brought for himself; but the men swore they 
would not go down without plenty of light, and such means 
for it as could not be jDut out by a draught of wind, or a stroke 




An Alter in the Cemetery of St. Sixtns. 

on the arm. The effects were soon obvious. As they advanced, 
silently and cautiously, along the low narrow gallery, the 
resinous torches crackled and hissed with a fierce glare, which 
heated and annoyed them ; while a volume of thick pitchy 
smoke from each rolled downwards on to the bearers from the 
roof, half stifled them, and made a dense atmosphere of cloud 
around themselves, which effectually dimmed their light. 
Torquatus kept at the head of the party, counting every turn- 
ing right and left, as he had noted them; though he found 



crtt- 



i:^ 



every mark which he had made carefully removed. He was 
staggered and baulked, when, after having counted little more 
than half the proper number, lie found the road completely 
blocked up. 

The fact was, that keener eyes than he was aware of had 
been on the look-out. Severus had never relaxed his watch- 
fulness, determined not to be surprised. He was neai- the 
entrance to the cemetery below, when the soldiers reached it 
above ; and he ran forward at once to the place where the 
sand had been prepared for closing the road ; near which his 
brother and several other stout workmen were stationed, in 
case of danger. In a moment, with that silence and rapidity 
to which they w^ere trained, they set to work lustily, shovelling 
the sand across the narrow and low corridor from each side, 
while well-directed blows of the pick brought from the low^ 
roof behind, huge flakes of sandstone, which closed up the 
opening. Behind this bai-rier they stood, hardly suppressing 
a laugh as they heard their enemies through its loose 
separation. Their work it was which had been heard, 
and which had screened off the lights, and deadened the 
song. 

Torquatus's perplexity was not diminished by the volley 
of oaths and imprecations, and the threats of violence which 
were showered upon him, for a fool or a traitor. " Stay one 
moment, I entreat you," he said. " It is possible I have mis- 
taken my reckoning. I know the right turn by a remarkable 
tomb a few^ yards within it; I will just step into one or two 
of the last corridors, and see." 

With these words, he ran back to the next gallery on the 
left, advanced a few paces, and totally disappeared. 

Though his companions had followed him to the very 
mouth of the gallery, they could not see how this happened. 
It appeared like witchcraft, in which they were quite ready to 
believe. His light and himself seemed to have vanished at 



once. "We will have no more of this work," they said; 
" either Torquatus is a traitor, or he has been carried off by 
magic." Worried, heated in the close atmosphere, almost 
inflamed by their lights, begrimed, blinded, and choked by the 
pitchy smoke, crest-fallen and disheartened, they turned back ; 
and since their road led straight to the entrance, they flung 
away their blazing torches into the side galleries, one here and 
one there, as they passed by, to get rid of them. When they 
looked back, it seemed as if a triumphal illumination was 
kindling up the very atmosphere of the gloomy corridor. From 
the mouths of the various caverns came forth a fiery light 
which turned the didl sandstone into a bright crimson; while 
the volumes of smoke above, hung like amber clouds along the 
whole gallery. The sealed tombs, receiving the unusual reflec- 
tion on their yellow tiles, or marble slabs, appeared covered 
with golden oi- silver plates, set in the red damask of the walls. 
It looked like a homage 23aid to martyrdom, by the very furies 
of heathenism, on the first day of persecution. The torches 
which they had kindled to destroy, only served to shed bright- 
ness on monuments of that virtue which had never failed to 
save the Church. 

But before these foiled hounds with drooping heads had 
reached the entrance, they recoiled before the sight of a singu- 
lar apparition. At first they thought they had caught a 
glimpse of daylight ; but they soon perceived it was the glim- 
mering of a lamp. This was held steadily by an upright, 
immovable figure, which thus received its light upon itself. 
It was clothed in a dark dress, so as to resemble one of those 
bronze statues, which have the head and extremities of white 
marble, and startle one, when first seen ; so like are they to 
living forms. 

" Who can it be ? What is it ? " the men whispered to one 
another. 

" A sorceress," replied one. 



^ 



" The genius loci,''^ * observed another. 

" A si^irit," suggested a third. 

Still, as they approached stealthily towards it, it did not 
appear conscious of their presence : " there was no speculation 
in its eyes ; " it remained unmoved and unscared. At length, 
two got sufficiently near to seize the figure by its arms. 

" Who are you ? " asked Corvinus, in a rage. 

"A Christian," answered Cfeciliaj with her usual cheerful 
gentleness. 

" Bring her along," he commanded ; " some one at least 
shall pay for our disappointment." 

* The guardian genius of the place. 




The Cure of the Man born Blind, from a picture in the Catacombs. 



tL 



% 




CHAPTER XVII. 
THE FIRST FLOWER, 



gj|u:ECILIA, already forewarned, had ap- 
proached the cemetery by a differ- 
ent, but neighboring entrance. No 
sooner had she descended than she 
snuffed the strong odor of the 
torches. "This is none of our in- 
cense, I know," she said to herself; 
" the enemy is already within." 
She hastened therefore to the place of assembly and deliv- 
ered Sebastian's note; adding also what she had observed. 
It wai'ned them to disperse and seek the shelter of the inner 
and lower galleries ; and begged of the Pontiff not to leave till 
he should send for him, as his person was i^articularly sought 
for. 

Pancratius urged the blind messengei- to save herself too. 
"No," she replied, "my office is to watch the door, and guide 
the faithful safe." 

" But the enemy may seize you." 

"No matter," she answered, laughing; "my being taken 
may save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius." 
"Why, you cannot see by it," observed he, smiling. 
"True, but others can." 
" They may be your enemies." 

" Even so," she answered, " I do not wish to be taken 
in the dark.' If my Bridegroom come to me in the night 



u u 



-^:i 



of this cemetery, must He not find me with my lamp 
trimmed? " 

Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise 
except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of 
friends, and held up her lamp to guide them. 

When the party came forth, with their only captive, Ful- 
vius was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure : 
it was ridiculous — a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the 
earth. He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; 
then suddenly he asked, "And where is Torquatus?" He 
heard the account of his sudden disappearance, told in as 
many ways as the Dacian guard's adventure : but it annoyed 
him greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, 
that he had been duped by his supposed victim, who had 
escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, 
this captive would know, and he determined to question her. 
He stood before her, therefore, put on his most searching and 
awful look, and said to her sternly, " Look at me, woman, and 
tell me the truth." 

" I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir," 
answered the poor girl, with her cheerfuUest smile and softest 
voice ; "do you not see that I am blind ? " 

" Blind ! " all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look 
at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the 
slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, 
pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A 
knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into 
his hand. 

"It will be ridiculous," he said, "for twenty soldiers to 
march through the city, guarding a blind girl. Keturn to 
your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, 
Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell 
him all, I will follow in a carriage with the captive." 

"J^o treachery, Fulvius," he said, vexed and mortified. 



^ 



"Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a 
sacrifice." 

"Do not fear," was the reply. 

Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one 
spy, he should not try to make another. But the placid 
gentleness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the 
boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied 
him more than the restless roll of the toper's. Still, the first 
thought that had -struck him he could yet pursue. When 
alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, 
and addressed her. He knew she had not overheard the last 
dialogue. 

" My poor girl," he said, " how long have you been 
blind?" 

" All my life," she replied. 

" What is your history ? Whence do you come ? " 

" I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought 
me to Rome when I was four years old, as they came to pray, 
in discharge of a vow made for my life in early sickness, to 
the blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in 
charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of 
Fasciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that 
memorable day, when many Christians were buried at their 
tomb, by earth and stones cast down upon them. My parents 
had the happiness to be of the number." 

" And how have you lived since ? " 

"God became my only Father then, and His Catholic 
Church my mother. The one feeds the birds of the air, the 
other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have never wanted 
for any thing since." 

" But you can walk about the streets freely, and without 
fear, as well as if you saw." 

" How do you know that? " 

"I have seen vou. Do you remember very early one 



morning in the autumn, leading a poor laine man along the 
Vieus Patricius? " 

She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen 
her put into the poor old man's purse her own share of the 
alms ? 

" Tou have owned yourself a Christian ? " he asked negli- 
gently. 

" Oh, yes ! how could I deny it? " 

"Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?" 

" Certainly ; wdiat else could it be ? " 

He wanted no more ; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, 
about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him 
nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. 
She must yield, or he would be avenged. 

After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, " Do you 
know whither you are going? " 

" Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to 
my Spouse in heaven." 

"And so calmly?" he asked in surprise; for he could see 
no token from the soul to the countenance, but a smile. 

"So joyfully rather," was her brief reply. 

Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner 
to Corvinus at the gates of the ^milian basilica, and left 
her to her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day like 
the preceding evening. The weather, and the incident of 
the night, had kept down all enthusiasm ; and while the 
prefect had been compelled to sit in-doors, where no great 
crowd could collect, as hours had passed away without 
any arrest, trial, or tidings, most of the curious had left, 
and only a few more persevering remained, past the hour 
of afternoon recreation in the public gardens. But just 
before the captive arrived, a fresh knot of spectators came 
in, and stood near one of the side-doors, from which they 
could see all. 



As Corviniis had prepared his father for what he was to 
expect, TertuUus, moved with some compassion, and imagin- 
ing there could be little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy 
of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to 
remain perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on 
her, alone, as she would imagine, wdth him ; and he threat- 
ened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break 
the silence. 

It was as he had calculated. Cecilia knew not that any 
one else was there, as the pi'efect thus kindly addressed her ; 

" What is thy name, child ? " 

" Caicilia." 

" It is a noble name ; hast thou it from thy family ? " 

" No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents, though 
poor, died for Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of 
me called me Cceca* and then, out of kindness, softened it 
into Csecilia." 

" But now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who 
have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the decrees of the 
divine emperors, and oifer sacrifice to the gods; and thou 
shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare; and the 
best physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight." 

"You must have better motives to propose to me than 
these ; for the very things for which I most thank God and 
His Divine Son, are those which you would have me put away." 

" How dost thou mean? " 

"I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare 
not daintily ; because by all these things I am the more like 
Jesus Christ, my only Spouse." 

"Foolish girl!" interrupted the judge, losing patience a 
little; "hast thou learnt all these silly delusions already? at 
least thou canst not thank thy God that He has made thee 
sightless." 

* Blind. 



cnfil 



" For that, more than all the rest, I thank Him daily and 
hourly with all my heart." 

"How so? dost thou think it a blessing never to have 
seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth ? 
What strange fancies are these ? " 

"They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of 
what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, 
it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what the 
sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varying 
direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me as with 
a countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon me ever. 
And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided 
affection. I would not for the world have its splendor dimmed 
by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with 
the diversities of others' features, nor my gaze on it drawn 
aside by earthly visions. I love Him too much not to wish to 
see Him always alone." 

"Come, come! let me have no more of this silly prattle. 
Obey the emperors at once, or I must try what a little pain 
will do. That will soon tame thee." 

" Pain? " she echoed innocently. 

"Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? hast thou never 
been hurt by any one in thy life? " 

" Oh, no ! Christians never hurt one another." 

The rack was standing, as usual, before him ; and he made 
a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner 
pushed her back on it by her arms; and as she made no 
resistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. 
The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed 
round her ankles, and arms drawn over the head. The poor 
sightless girl saw not who did all this; she knew not but it 
might be the same person who had been conversing with her. 
If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very 
breath ; while Ctecilia's lips moved in earnest prayer. 






" Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to 
sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments," said the 
judge, with a sterner voice. 

"ISTeither torments nor death," firmly replied the victim 
tied to the altar, " shall separate me from the love of Christ. 
I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God : and its 
ready oblation is myself." 

The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave 
one I'apid whirl to the two wheels of the rack, round the wind- 
lasses of which the ropes were wound ; and the limbs of the 
maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, though not 
enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn 
would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating, or more 
truly, a racking pain, through all her frame. Far more griev- 
ous was this, from the preparation and the cause of it being 
unseen, and from that additional suffering which darkness 
inflicts. A quivering of her features and- a sudden paleness 
alone gave evidence of lier torture. 

"Ha! ha!" the judge exclaimed, "thou feelest that? 
Come, let it suffice; obey, and thou shalt be freed." 

She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to 
her feelings in prayer: "I thank Thee, Lord Jesus Christ, 
tliat Thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for Thy 
sake. I have loved Thee in peace ; I have loved Thee in com- 
fort ; I have loved Thee in joy, — and now in pain I love Thee 
still more. How much sweeter it is to be like Thee, stretched 
upon Thy Cross, even than resting upon the hard couch at 
the poor man's table ! " 

"Thou triflest with me," exclaimed the judge, thoroughly 
vexed, " and makest light of my lenity. We will try some- 
thing stronger. Here, Catulus, apply a lighted torch to her 
sides." * 

* The rack was used for a double purpose ; as a direct torment, and to keep 
the body distended for the apf)lication of other tortures. This of fire was one of 
the most common. 



UXr 



■% 



A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly, 
which could not help sympathizing with the poor blind 
creature. A murmur of suppressed indignation broke out 
from all sides of the hall. 

Cgecilia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the midst 
of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, 
her face, and neck, just before white as marble. The angry 
judge checked the rising gush of feeling; and all listened in 
silence, as she spoke again, with warmer earnestness than 
before : 

" my dear Lord and Spouse ! I have been ever true and 
faithful to Thee ! Let me suffer pain and torture for Thee ; but 
spare me confusion from human eyes. Let me come to Thee 
at once ; not covering my face with my hands in shame when 
I stand before Thee." 

Another muttering of compassion was heard. 

"Catulus!" shouted the baffled judge in fury; "do your 
duty, sirrah ! what are you about, fumbling all day with that 
torch ? " 

The executioner advanced, and stretched forth his hand to 
her robe, to withdraw it for the torture ; but he drew back, 
and, turning to the prefect, exclaimed in softened accents : 

" It is too late. She is dead ! " 

" Dead ! " cried out Tertullus ; " dead with one turn of the 
wheel? impossible!" 

Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body 
remained motionless. It was true ; she had passed from the 
rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge's counte- 
nance to her Spouse's welcoming embrace. Had she breathed 
out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her 
prayer ? or had her heart been unable to get back its blood, 
from the intensity of that first virginal blush ? * 

* There are many instances in the lives of martyrs of their deaths being the 
fi-uit of prayer, as in St. Praxedes, St. Cseeilia, St. Agatha, &c. 



Li U ® 



In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear bold voice 
cried out, from the group near the door: "Impious tyrant, 
dost thou not see, that a poor blind Christian hath 
more power over life and death, than thou or thy cruel 
masters?" 

"What! a third time in twenty -four hours wilt thou 
dare to cross my path ? This time thou shalt not 
escape." 

These were Corvinus's words, garnished with a furious 
imprecation, as he rushed from his father's side round the 
enclosure before the tribunal, towards the group. But as 
he ran blindly on, he struck against an of&cer of herculean 
build, who, no doubt quite accidentally, was advancing 
from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him, 
saying: 

" You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus ? " 

"No, no; let me go, Quadratus, let me go." 

" Where are you running to in such a hurry ? can I help 
you? " asked his captor, still holding him fast. 

"Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone." 

" Who will be gone ? " 

" Pancratius," answered Corvinus, " who just now insulted 
my father." 

" Pancratius ! " said Quadratus, looking round, and seeing 
that he had got clear off; " I do not see him." And he let 
him go; but it was too late. The youth was safe at Diogenes' s, 
in the Suburra. 

While this scene was going on, the prefect, mortified, 
ordered Catulus to see the body thrown into the Tiber. But 
another officer, muflfled in his cloak, stepped aside and beck- 
oned to Catulus, who understood the sign, and stretched out 
his hand to receive a purse held out to him. 

" Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina's villa, an hour after 
sunset," said Sebastian. 



" It shall be delivered there safe," said the executioner. 

" Of what do you think did that poor girl die? " asked a 
spectator from his companion, as they went out. 

" Of fright, I fancy," he replied. 

" Of Christian modesty," interposed a stranger who passed 
them. 




The Woman of Samaria, from a picture in tlie Cemetery of St. Domitilla. 



crtli 




CHAPTER XVIII. 
RETRIBUTION. 

!HE prefect of the city went to give his report 

on the untoward events of the day, and do 

what was possible to screen his worthless 

son. He found the emperor in the worst of 

moods. Had Corvinus come in his way early 

in the day, nobody could have answered for 

his head. And now the result of the inroad 

into the cemetery had revived his anger, when Tertullus 

entered into the audience-chamber. Sebastian contrived to 

be on guard. 

"Where is your booby of a son? " was the first salutation 
which the prefect received. 

" Humbly waiting your divinity's pleasure outside, and 
anxious to propitiate your godlike anger, for the tricks which 
fortune has played upon his zeal." 

"Fortune!'" exclaimed the tyrant ; " fortune indeed ! His 
own stupidity and cowardice : a pretty beginning, forsooth ; 
but he shall smart for it. Bring him in." 

The wretch, whining and trembling, was introduced ; and 
cast himself at the emperor's feet, from which he was spurned, 
and sent rolling, like a lashed hound, into the midst of the hall. 
This set the imperial divinity a-laughing, and helped to mollify 
its wrath. 

" Come, sirrah ! stand up," he said, " and let me hear an 
account of yourself. How did the edict disappear ? " 



Corvinus told a rambling tale, which occasionally amused 
the emperor ; for he was rather taken with the trick. This 
was a good symptom. 

" Well," he said at last, " I will be merciful to you. Lictors, 
bind your fasces." They drew their axes forth, and felt their 
edges. Corvinus again threw^ himself down, and exclaimed : 

" Spare my life ; I have important information to furnish, 
if I live." 

"Who wants your worthless life?" responded the gentle 
Maximian. "Lictors, put aside your axes; the rods are good 
enough for him." 

In a moment his hands were seized and bound, his tunic 
was stripped off his shoulders, and a shower of blows fell upon 
them, delivered with well-regulated skill, till he roared and 
writhed, to the great enjoyment of his imperial master. 

Smarting and humbled, he had to stand again before him. 

" Now, sir," said the latter, " what is the wonderful infor- 
mation you have to give?" 

"That I know who perpetrated the outrage of last night, 
on your imperial edict." 

"Who was it?" 

" A youth named Pancratius, M'hose knife I found under 
where the edict had been cut away." 

" And why have you not seized him and brought him to 
justice ? " 

" Twice this day he has been almost within my grasp, for 
I have heard his voice ; but he has escaped me." 

" Then let him not escape a third time, or you may have 
to take his place. But how do you know him, or his knife ? " 

"He was my school-fellow at the school of Cassianus, who 
turned out to be a Christian." 

" A Christian presume to teach my subjects, to make them 
enemies of their country, disloyal to their sovereigns, and con- 
temners of the gods ! I suppose it was he who taught that 



young viper Pancratius to pull down our iniperial edict. Do 
you know where he is? " 

"Tes, sire; Torquatus, who has abandoned the Christian 
superstition, has told me." 

" And pray who is this Torquatus ? " 

"He is one who has been staying some time with Chro- 
matins and a party of Christians in the country." 

" Why, this is worse and worse. Is the ex-prefect then, 
too, become a Christian ? " 

"Tes, and lives with many others of that sect in Cam- 
pania." 

" What perfidy ! what treachery ! I shall not know whom 
to trust next. Prefect, send some one immediately to arrest 
all these men, and the school-master, and Torquatus." 

" He is no longer a Christian," interposed the judge. 

"Well, what do I care?" replied the emperor peevishly ; 
" arrest as many as you can, and spare no one, and make 
them smart well ; do you understand me ? Now begone, all ; 
it is time for my supper." 

Corvinus went home ; and, in spite of medicinal applica- 
tions, was feverish, sore, and spiteful all night; and next 
morning begged his father to let him go on the expedition 
into Campania, that so he might retrieve his honor, gratify his 
revenge, and escape the disgrace and sarcasm that was sure 
to be heaped on him by Roman society. 

When Fulvius had deposited his prisoner at the tribunal, 
he hastened home to recount his adventures, as usual, to 
Eurotas. The old man listened with imperturbable sternness 
to the barren recital, and at last said, coldly : 

" Very little profit from all this, Fulvius." 

" No immediate profit, indeed ; but a good prospect in 
view, at least." 

"How so? " 

"Why, the Lady Agnes is in my power. I have made 



^ 



sure, at last, that she is a Christian. I can now necessarily 
either win her or destroy her. In either case her property is 

mine." 

" Take the second alternative," said tlie old man, with a 
keen glow in his eye, but no change of face ; " it is the 
shorter, and less troublesome, way." 

"But my honor is engaged; I cannot allow myself to be 
spurned in the manner I told you." 

"You ham been spurned, however; and that calls for 
vengeance. You have no time to lose, remember, in foolery. 
Your funds are nearly exhausted, and nothing is coming in. 
You must strike a blow." 

" Surely, Eurotas, you would prefer my trying to get this 
wealth by honorable," (Eurotas smiled at the idea coming into 
either of their minds) " rather than by foul, means." 

" Get it, get it any way, provided it be the surest and the 
speediest. You know our compact. Either the family is 
restored to wealth and splendor, or it ends in and with you. 
It shall never linger on in disgrace, that is, in poverty." 

" I know, I know, without your every day reminding me 
of the bitter condition," said Fulvius, wringing his hands, 
and writhing in all his body. " Give me time enough, and 
all will be well." 

" I give you time, till all is hopeless. Things do not look 
bright at present. But, Fulvius, it is time that I tell you 
who I am." 

"Why, were you not my father's faithful dependant, to 
whose care he intrusted me? " 

" I was your father's elder brother, Fulvius, and am the 
head of the family. I have had but one thought, but one aim 
in life, the i-estoring of our house to that greatness and splen- 
dor, from which my father's negligence and prodigality had 
brought it down. Thinking that your father, my brother, had 
greater ability than myself for this work, I resigned my rights 



m 



and gains to him upon certain terms ; one of which was your 
guardianship, and the exclusive forming of your mind. You 
know how I have trained you, to care nothing about the 
means, so that our great ends be carried." 

Fulvius, who had been riveted with amazement and deep 
attention on the speakei", shrunk into himself wdth shame, at 
this baring of both their hearts. The dark old man fixed his 
eyes more intently than ever, and went on : 

"Tou remember the black and complicated crime by 
which we concentrated in your hands the divided remnant of 
family wealth." 

Fulvius covered his face with his hands and shuddered, 
then said entreatingly, " Ob, spare me that, Eurotas ; for 
heaven's sake s^jare me ! " 

"Well, then," resumed the other, unmoved as ever, " I will 
be brief. Eemember, nephew, that he who does not recoil 
from a brilliant future, to be gained by guilt, must not sliiink 
from a past that prepared it by crime. For the future will 
one day be the past. Let our compact, therefore, be straight- 
forward and honest, for there is an honesty even in sin. JSTat- 
ure has given you abundance of selfishness and cunning, 
and she has given me boldness and remorselessness in direct- 
ing and applying them. Our lot is cast by the same throw, — 
we become rich, or die, together." 

Fulvius, in his heart, cursed the day that he came to 
Rome, or bound himself to his stern master, whose mysterious 
tie was so much stronger than he had known before. But 
he felt himself spell-bound to him, and powerless as the 
kid in the lion's paws. He retired to his couch with a heavier 
heart than ever; for a dark, impending fate never failed to 
weigh upon his soul every returning night. 

The reader will peihaps be curious to know what has 
become of the third member of our worthy trio, the apostate 
Torquatus. When, confused and bewildered, he ran to look 



for the tomb which was to guide him, it so happened, that, just 
within the gallery which he entered, was a neglected stair- 
case, cut in the sandstone, down to a lower story of the ceme- 
tery. The steps had been worn round and smooth, and the 
descent was precipitous. Torquatus, carrying his light before 
him, and running heedlessly, fell headlong down the opening, 
and reuiained stunned and insensible at the bottom, till long 
after his companions had retired. He then revived, and for 
some time was so confused that he knew not where he was. 
He arose and groped about, till, consciousness completely 
returning, he remembered that he was in a catacomb, but 
could not make out how he was alone and in the dark. It 
then struck him that he had a supply of tapers about him, 
and means of lighting them. He employed these, and was 
cheered by finding himself again in light. But he had wan- 
dered from the staircase, of which, indeed, he recollected 
nothing, and went on, and on, entangling himself more inex- 
tricably in the subterranean labyrinth. 

He felt sure that, before he had exhausted his strength or 
his tapers, he should come to some outlet. But by degrees he 
began to feel serious alarm. One after the other his lights 
were burnt out, and his vigor began to fail, for he had been 
fasting from early morning; and he found himself coming 
back to the same spot, after he had wandered about apparently 
for hours. At first he had looked negligently around him, and 
had carelessly read the inscriptions on the tombs. But as he 
grew fainter, and his hope of relief weaker, these solemn monu- 
ments of death began to speak to his soul, in a language that 
it could not refuse to hear, nor pretend to misunderstand. 
"Deposited in peace," was the inmate of one; "resting in 
Christ" was another; and even the thousand nameless ones 
around them reposed in silent calm, each with the seal of the 
Church's motherly care stamped upon his place of rest. And 
within, the embalmed remains awaited the sound of angelic 



trumpet-notes, to awaken them to a happy resurrection. And 
he, in a few more hours, would be dead like them ; he was 
lighting his last taper, and had sunk down upon a heap of 
mould; but would he be laid in peace, by pious hands, as 
they? On the cold ground, alone, he should die, unpitied, 
unmourned, unknown. There he should rot, and drop to 
pieces; and if, in after years, his bones, cast out from 
Christian sepulture, should be found, tradition might conjec- 
ture that they were the accursed remains of an apostate lost 
in the cemetery. And even they might be cast out, as he was, 
from the communion of that hallowed ground. 

It was coming on fast ; he could feel it ; his head reeled, 
his heart fluttered. The taper was getting too short for his 
fingers, and he placed it on a stone beside him. It might 
burn three minutes longer ; but a drop filtering through the 
ceiling, fell upon it, and extinguished it. So covetous did he 
feel of those three minutes more of light, so jealous was he of 
that little taper-end, as his last link with earth's joys, so 
anxious was he to have one more look at things without, lest 
he should be forced to look at those within, that he drew forth 
his flint and steel, and labored for a quarter of an hour to get 
a light from tinder, damped by the cold perspiration on his 
body. And when he had lighted his remnant of candle, instead 
of profiting by its flame to look around him, he fixed his eyes 
upon it with an idiotic stare, watching it burn down, as though 
it were the charm which bound his life, and this must expire 
with it. And soon the last spark gleamed smouldering like a 
glow-worm, on the red earth, and died. 

Was he dead too? he thought. Why not? Darkness, 
complete and perpetual, had come upon him. He was cut off 
for ever from consort with the living, his mouth would no more 
taste food, his ears never again hear a sound, his eyes behold 
no light, or thing, again. He was associated with the dead, 
only his grave was much larger than theirs ; but, for all that. 



it was as dark and lonely, and closed for ever. What else is 
death ? 

JSTo, it could not be death as yet. Death had to be fol- 
lowed by something else. But even this was coming. The 
worm was beginning to gnaw his conscience, and it grew 
apace to a viper's length, and twisted itself round his heart. 
He tried to think of pleasant things, and they came before 
him ; the quiet hours in the villa with Chromatins and Poly- 
carp, their kind words, and last embrace. But from the 
beautiful vision darted a withering flash; he had betrayed 
them ; he had told of them ; to whom ? To Fulvius and Cor- 
vinus. The fatal chord was touched, like the tingling nerve 
of a tooth, that darts its agony straight to the centre of the 
brain. The drunken debauch, the dishonest play, the base 
hypocrisy, the vile treachery, the insincere apostasy, the 
remorseful sacrileges, of the last days, and the murderous 
attempt of that morning, now came dancing, like demons 
hand in hand, in the dark before him, shouting, laughing, 
jibing, weeping, moaning, gnashing their teeth ; and sparks 
of lire flying before his eyes, from his enfeebled brain, seemed 
to dart from glaring torches in their hands. He sunk down 
and covered his eyes. 

"I may be dead, after all," he said to himself; "for the 
infernal pit can have nothing worse than this." 

His heart was too weak for rage ; it sunk within him in 
the impotence of despair. His strength was ebbing fast, when 
he fancied he heard a distant sound. He put away the 
thought ; but the wave of a remote harmony beat again upon 
his ear. He raised himself up; it was becoming distinct. So 
sweet it sounded, so like a chorus of angelic voices, but in 
another sphere, that he said to himself: "Who would have 
thought that Heaven was so near to hell ! Or are they 
accompanying the fearful Judge to try me? " 

And now a faint glimmer of light appeared at the same 



distance as the sounds; and the words of the strain were 
clearly heard : 

" In pace, in idipsum, dormiam et requiescam." * 

" Those words are not for me. They might do at a mar- 
tyr's entombment ; they cannot at a reprobate's burial." 

The light increased ; it was like a dawn glowing into day ; 
it entered the gallery and passed across it, bearing in it, as in 
a mirror, a vision too distinct to be unreal. First, there came 
virgins robed and holding lamps ; then four who carried 
between them a form wrapped up in a white linen cloth, with a 
crown of thorns upon the head; after them the youthful 
acolyte Tarcisius bearing a censer steaming with perfumed 
smoke; and, after others of the clergy, the venerable Pon- 
tiff himself, attended by Reparatus, and another deacon. 
Diogenes and his sons, with sorrowful countenances, and 
many others, among whom he could distinguish Sebastian, 
closed the procession. As many bore lamps or tapers, the 
figures seemed to move in an unchanging atmosphere of 
mildest light. 

And as they passed before him, they chanted the next 
verse of the psalm : 

" Quoniam Tu Domine singulariter in spe constituisti 
me." t 

" 7%a^," he exclaimed, rousing himself up, " that is for 
me." 

With this thought he had sprung upon his knees ; and by 
an instinct of grace words which he had before heard came 
back to him like an echo ; words suited to the moment ; words 
which he felt that he must speak. He crept forward, faint 
and feeble, turned along the gallery through which the funeral 
procession was passing, and followed it, unobserved, at a dis- 
tance. It entered a chamber and lighted it up, so that a pict- 

* " In peace, in the selfsame, I will sleep and I will rest." Ps. iv. 9. 
f For Thou, Lord, singularly hast placed me in hope. Ps. v. 10. 



ure of the Good Shepherd looked brightly down on him. But 
he would not pass the threshold, where he stood striking his 
breast and praying for mercy. 

The body had been laid upon the ground, and other 
psalms and hymns were sung, and prayers recited, all in that 
cheerful tone and joyous mood of hopefulness, with which the 
Church has always treated of death. At length it was placed 
in the tomb prepared for it, under an arch. While this was 
being done, Torquatus drew nigh to one of the spectators, and 
whisi^ered to him the question : 

" Whose funeral is this ? " 

" It is the dejjosition,'' he answered, " of the blessed 
Caecilia, a blind virgin, who this morning fell into the hands 
of the soldiers, in this cemetery, and whose soul God took to 
Himself." 

" Then I am her murderer," he exclaimed, with a hollow 
moan ; and staggering forward to the holy bishop's feet, fell 
prostrate before him. It was some time before his feelings 
could find vent in words; when these came, they were the 
ones he had resolved to utter : 

" Father, I have sinned before heaven, and against Thee, 
and I am not worthy to be called Thy child." 

The Pontiff raised him up kindly, and pressed him to his 
bosom, saying, "Welcome back, my son, whoever thou art, to 
thy Father's house. But thou art weak and faint, and 
needest rest." 

Some refreshment was immediately procured. But Tor- 
quatus would not rest till he had publicly avowed the whole 
of his guilt, including the day's crimes ; for it was still the 
evening of the same day. All rejoiced at the prodigal's 
return, at the lost sheep's recovery. Agnes looked up to 
heaven from her last affectionate glance on the blind virgin's 
shroud, and thought that she could almost see her seated at 
the feet of her Spouse, smiling, with her eyes wide open, as 



she cast down a handful of flowers on the head of the peni- 
tent, the first-fruits of her intercession in heaven. 

Diogenes and his sons took charge of him. An humble 
lodging was procured for him, in a Christian cottage near, 
that he might not be within the reach of temptation, or of 
vengeance, and he was enrolled in the class of penitents, 
where years of expiation, shortened by the intercession of con- 
fessors — that is, future martyrs — would prepare him for full 
re-admission to the privileges he had forfeited.* 

* The penitentiary system of the early Church will be better described in any 
volume that embodies the antiquity of the second period of ecclesiastical history, 
that of The Church of the Basilicas. It is well known, especially from the writ- 
ings of St. Cyprian, that those who proved weak in persecution, and were sub- 
jected to public penance, obtained a shortening of its term, — that is, an indulgence, 
— through the intercession of confessors, or of persons imprisoned for the faith. 




cures the Blind Man, from a picture m the Cemetery of St. Domitilla. 



CHAPTER XIX. 




TWOFOLD REVENGE. 



[EBASTIAN'S visit to the cemetery had 
been not merely to take thithei' for 
sepulture the relics of the first martyr, 
but also to consult with Marcellinus 
about his safety. His life was too val- 
uable to the Church to be sacrificed so 
early, and Sebastian knew how eagerly 
it was sought. Torquatus now con- 
firmed this, by communicating Ful- 
vius's designs, and the motive of his 
attendance at the December ordination. 
The usual papal residence was no longer safe; and a bold 
idea had been adopted by the courageous- soldier, — the " Pro- 
tector of the Christians," as his acts tell us he had been 
authoritatively called. It was to lodge the Pontiff where no 
one could suspect him to be, and where no search would be 
dreamt of, in the very palace of the Caesars.* Efficiently dis- 
guised, the holy Bishop left the cemetery, and, escorted by 
Sebastian and Quadratus, was safely housed in the apart- 
ments of Irene, a Christian lady of rank, who lived in a 
remote part of the Palatine, in which her husband held a 
household office. 

Early next morning Sebastian was with Pancratius. " My 
dear boy," he said, "you must leave Rome instantly, and go 

* This is related in the Acts just referred to. 



# 



into Campania. I have horses ready for you and Quadratus ; 
and there is no time to be lost." 

" And why, Sebastian ? " replied the youth, with sorrowful 
face and tearful eye. " Have I done something wrong, or are 
you doubtful of my fortitude ? " 

"JSTeither, I assure you. But you have promised to be 
guided by me in all things, and I never considered your obedi- 
ence more necessary than now." 

" Tell me why, good Sebastian, I pray." 

" It must be a secret as yet." 

" What, another secret ? " 

" Call it the same, to be revealed at the same time. But 
I can tell you what I want you to do, and that I think will 
satisfy you. Corvinus has got orders to seize on Chromatins 
and all his community, yet young in the faith, as the wretched 
example of Torquatus has shown us ; and, what is worse, to 
put your old master Cassianus, at Fundi, to a cruel death. I 
want you to hasten before his messenger (perhaps he may go 
himself), and put them on their guard." 

Pancratius looked up brightly again ; he saw that Sebas- 
tian trusted him. "Your wish is enough reason for me," said 
he, smiling; "but I would go the world's end to save my 
good Cassianus, or any other fellow-Christians." 

He was soon ready, took an affectionate leave of his 
mother; and before Rome had fully shaken off sleep, he and 
Quadratus, each with well-furnished saddle-bags on their 
powerful steeds, were trotting across the campagna of Rome, 
to reach the less-frequented, and safer, track of the Latin 
way. 

Corvinus having resolved to keep the hostile expedition in 
his own hands, as honorable, lucrative, and pleasant, it was 
delayed a couple of days, both that he might feel more com- 
fortable about his shoulders, and that he might make proper 
preparations. He had a chariot hired, and engaged a body of 



w 



Numidian runners, who could keep up with a carriage at full 
speed. But he was thus two days behind our Christians, 
though he, of course, travelled by the shorter and more beaten 
Appian road. 

When Pancratius arrived at the Villa of Statues, he found 
the little community already excited, by the rumors, which 
had reached it, of the edict's publication. He was welcomed 
most warmly by all; and Sebastian's letter of advice was 
received with deep respect. Prayer and deliberation suc- 
ceeded its perusal, and various resolutions were taken. 
Marcus and Marcellianus, with their father Tranquillinus, 
had already gone to Rome for the ordination. Nicostratus, 
Zoe, and others followed them now. Chromatins, who was 
not destined for the crown of martyrdom, though commem- 
orated, by the Church, with his son, on the 11th of August, 
found shelter for a time in Fabiola's villa, for which letters 
had been procured from its mistress, without her knowing the 
reason why ; for he wished to remain in the neighborhood a 
little while longer. In fine, the villa ad Stattias was left in 
charge of a few faithful servants, fully to be depended upon. 

When the two messengers had given themselves and their 
horses a good rest, they travelled, by the same road as Torqua- 
tus had lately trodden, to Fundi, where they put uj) at an 
obscure inn out of the town, on the Roman road. Pancratius 
soon found out his old master, who embraced him most affec- 
tionately. He told him his errand, and entreated him to fly, 
or at least conceal himself. 

"JS'o," said the good man, "it must not be. I am already 
old, and I am weary of my unprofitable profession. I and my 
servant are the only two Christians in the town. The best 
families have, indeed, sent their children to my school, 
because they knew it would be kept as moral as paganism 
will permit ; but I have not a friend among my scholars, by 
reason of this very strictness. And they want even the 



m 



m 



natural refinement of Roman heathens. They are rude pro- 
vincials ; and I believe there are some among the elder ones 
who would not scruple to take my life, if they could do so with 
impunity." 

" What a wretched existence indeed, Cassianus, you must 
be leading! Have you made no impression on them? " 

" Little or none, dear Pancratius. And how can I, while I 
am obliged to make them read those dangerous books, full of 
fables, which Roman and Greek literature contain? No, I 
have done little by my words ; perhaps my death may do 
more for them." 

Pancratius found all expostulation vain, and would have 
almost joined him in his resolution to die; only he had 
promised Sebastian not to expose his life during the journey. 
He, however, determined to remain about the town till he saw 
the end. 

Corvinus arrived with his men at the villa of Chromatius ; 
and early in the morning rushed suddenly through the gates, 
and to the house. He found it empty. He searched it 
through and through, but discovered neither a person, a book, 
nor a symbol of Christianity. He was confounded and 
annoyed. He looked about; and having found a servant 
working in the garden, asked him where his master was. 

" Master no tell slave where he go," was the reply, in a 
latinity corresponding to such a rude phraseology. 

" You are trifling with me. "Which way did he and his 
companions go? " 

" Through yonder gate." 

"And then?" 

" Look that way," answered the servant. " You see gate ? 
very well ; you see no more. Me work here, me see gate, me 
see no more." 

"When did they go? at least you can answer that." 

" After the two come from Rome." 



"What two? Always two, it seems." 

" One good youth, very handsome, sing so sweet. The 
other very big, very strong, oh, very. See that young tree 
pulled up by the roots ? He do that as easy as me pull my 
spade out of the ground." 

"The very two," exclaimed Corvinus, thoroughly enraged. 
" Again that dastardly boy has marred my plans and destroyed 
my hopes. He shall suffer well for it." 

As soon as he was a little rested, he resumed his joui-ney, 
and determined to vent all his fury on his old master ; unless, 
indeed, he whom he considered his evil genius should have 
been there before him. He was engaged during his journey, 
in plotting vengeance upon master and fellow-student ; and 
he was delighted to find, that one at least was at Fundi, when 
he arrived. He showed the governor his order for the arrest 
and punishuient of Cassianus, as a most dangerous Christian ; 
but that officer, a humane man, remarked that the connnission 
superseded ordinary jurisdiction in the matter, and gave Cor- 
vinus full power to act. He offered him the assistance of an 
executioner, and other requisites; but they were declined. 
Corvinus had brought an abundant supply of strength and 
cruelty, in his own body-guard. He took, however, a public 
officer with him. 

He proceeded to the school-house when filled with scholars ; 
shut the doors, and reproached Cassianus, who advanced with 
open hand and countenance to greet him, as a conspirator 
against the state and a perfidious Christian. A shout arose 
from the boyish mob ; and by its tone, and by the look which 
he cast around, Corvinus learnt there were many jDresent like 
liimself — young bears' cubs, with full-grown hyenas' hearts 
within tkem. 

" Boys ! " he shouted out, " do you love your master Cas- 
sianus ? He was once mine too, and I owe him many a grudge." 
A veil of execration broke out from the benches. 






" Then I have good news for you ; here is permission from 
the divine emperor Maximian for you to do what you like to 
Mm." 

A shower of books, writing tablets, and other school mis- 
siles, was directed against the master, who stood unmoved, 
with his arms folded, before his persecutor. Then came a 
rush from all sides, with menacing attitudes of a brutal 
onslaught. 

" Stop, stop," cried out Corvinus, " we must go more sys- 
tematically to work than this." 

He had reverted in thought to the recollection of his own 
sweet school-boy days; that time which most look back on 
from hearts teeming with softer feelings than the contempla- 
tion of present things can suggest. He indulged in the 
reminiscence of that early season in which others find but the 
picture of unselfish, joyous, happy hours ; and he sought in 
the recollection what would most have gratified him then, 
that he might bestow it as a boon on the hopeful youths 
around him. But he could think of nothing that would have 
been such a treat to him, as to pay back to his master every 
stroke of correction, and write in blood upon him every word 
of reproach that he had received. Delightful thought, now to 
be fulfilled ! 

It is far from our intention to harrow the feelings of our 
gentle readers by descriptions of the cruel and fiendish tor- 
ments inflicted by the heathen persecutors on our Christian 
forefathers. Few are more horrible, yet few better authenti- 
cated, than the torture practised on the martyr Cassianus. 
Placed, bound, in the midst of his ferocious young tigers, he 
was left to be the lingering victim of their feeble cruelty. 
Some, as the Christian poet Prudentius tells us, cut their 
tasks upon him with the steel points used in engraving writ- 
ing on wax-covered tablets ; others exercised the ingenuity of 
a precocious brutality, by inflicting every possible torment on 



c--^ 



his lacerated body. Loss of blood, and acute pain, at length 
exhausted him, and he fell on the floor without power to rise. 
A shout of exultation followed, new insults were inflicted, 
and the troop of youthful demons broke loose, to tell the story 
of their sport at their respective homes. To give Christians 
decent burial never entered into the minds of their persecu- 
tors ; and Corvinus, who had glutted his eyes with the spec- 
tacle of his vengeance, and had urged on the first efforts at 
cruelty of his ready ins-truments, left the expiring man where 
he lay, to die unnoticed. His faithful servant, however, raised 
him up, and laid him on his bed, and sent a token, as he had 
preconcerted, to Pancratius, who was soon at his side, while 
his companion looked after preparations for their departure. 
The youth was horrified at what he beheld, and at the recital 
of his old master's exquisite torture, as he was edified by the 
account of his patience. For not a word of reproach had 
escaped him, and prayer alone had occupied his thoughts and 

tongue. 

Cassianus recognized his dear pupil, smiled upon him, 
pressed his hand in his own, but could not speak. After lin- 
gering till morning he placidly expired. The last rites of 
Christian sepulture were modestly paid to him on the spot, for 
the house was his ; and Pancratius hurried from the scene, 
with a heavy heart and a no slight rising of its indignation, 
against the heartless savage who had devised and witnessed, 
without remorse, such a tragedy. 

He was mistaken, however. No sooner was his revenge 
fulfilled than Corvinus felt all the disgrace and shame of what 
he had done ; he feared it should be known to his father, who 
had always esteemed Cassianus ; he feared the anger of the 
parents, whose childi-en he had that day efi"ectually demoral- 
ized, and fleshed to little less than parricide. He ordered 
his horses to be harnessed, but was told they must have 
some more hours' rest. This increased his displeasure; 



M 



remorse tormented him, and he sat down to drink, and so 
drown care and pass time. At length he started on his jour- 
ney, and after baiting for an hour or two, pushed on through 
the night. The road was heavy from continued rain, and ran 
along the side of the great canal which drains the Pontine 
marshes, and between two rows of trees. 

Corvinus had drunk again at his halt, and was heated 
with wdne, vexation, and remorse. The dragging pace of his 
jaded steeds provoked him, and he kept lashing them furi- 
ously on. While they were thus excited they heard the tramp 
of horses coming fast on behind, and dashed forward at an 
uncontrollable speed. The attendants were soon left at a dis- 
tance, and the frightened horses passed between the trees on 
to the narrow path by the canal, and galloped forward, rock- 
ing the chariot from side to side at a reckless rate. The 
horsemen behind hearing the violent rush of hoofs and wheels, 
and the shout of the followers, clapped spurs to their horses, 
and pushed gallantly forward. They had passed the runners 
some way when they heard a crash and a plunge. The wheel 
had struck the trunk of a tree, the chariot had turned over, 
and its half-drunken driver had been tossed head over heels 
into the water. In a moment Pancratius w^as off his horse 
and by the side of the canal, together with his companion. 

By the faint light of the rising moon, and by the sound of 
his voice, the youth recognized Corvinus struggling in the 
muddy stream. The side was not deep, but the high clayey 
bank was wet and slimy, and every time he attempted to 
climb it his foot slipped, and he fell back into the deep water 
in the middle. He was, in fact, already becoming benumbed 
and exhausted by his wintry bath. 

" It w^ould serve him right to leave him there," muttered 
the rough centurion. 

"Hush, Quadratus! how can you say so? give me hold of 
your hand. So ! " said the youth, leaning over the bank and 



seizing his enemy by his arm, just as he was relaxing his 
hold on a withered shrub, and falling back fainting into the 
stream. It would have been his last plunge. They pulled 
him out and laid him on the road, a pitiable figure for his 
greatest foe. They chafed his temples and hands, and he had 
begun to revive when his attendants came up. To their care 
they consigned him, together with his purse, which had fallen 
from his belt as they drew him from the canal. But Pancra- 
tius took possession of his own pen-knife, which dropped out 
with it, and which Corvinus carried about him, as evidence to 
convict him of having cut down the edict. The servants pre- 
tended to Corvinus, when he had regained consciousness, that 
they had drawn him out of the water, but that his purse must 
have been lost in it, and lay still buried in the deep mud. 
They bore him to a neighboring cottage, while the carriage 
was being repaired, and had a good carouse with his money 
while he slept. 

Two acts of revenge had been thus accomplished in one 
day, — the pagan and the Christian. 




The Anchor and Fish, emblematic of Christianity, found in the Catacomb!*. 



^71 



!#/ 



^A^:, 




CHAPTER XX. 



THE PUBLIC WORKS. 



F, before the edict, the Thermae of Dio- 
clesian were being erected by the labor 
and sweat of Christian prisoners, it will 
' not appear surprising, that their number 
and their sufferings should have greatly 
increased, with the growing intensity of 
a most savage persecution. That em- 
peror himself was expected for the inau- 
guration of his favorite building, and hands 
were doubled on the work to expedite its 
■) completion. Chains of supposed culprits 
arrived each day from the port of Luna, from 
Sardinia, and even from the Crimea, or Chersone- 
sus, where they had been engaged in quarries or 
mines; and were put to labor in the harder 
departments of the building art. To transport 
materials, to saw and cut stone and marble, to mix the mortar, 
and to build up the walls, were the duties allotted to the 
religious culprits, many of whom were men little accustomed 
to such menial toil. The only recompense which they received 
for their labor, was that of the mules and oxen which shared 
their occupation. Little better, if better, than a stable to sleep 
in, food sufficient in quantity to keep up their strength, clothing 
enough to guard them from the inclemency of the season, this 
was all they had to expect. Fetters on their ankles, heavy 



chains to prevent their escape, increased their sufferings ; and 
task-masters, acceptable in proportion as they were unreason- 
able, watched every gang with lash or stick in hand, ever 
ready to add pain to toil, whether it were to vent their own 
wanton cruelty upon unresisting objects, or to please their 
crueller masters. 

But the Christians of Eome took peculiar care of these 
blessed confessors, who were particularly venerated by them. 
Their deacons visited them, by bribing their guards; and 
young men would boldly venture among them, and distribute 
more nourishing food, or warmer clothing to them, or give 
them the means of conciliating their keepers, so as to obtain 
better treatment at their hands. They would then also 
recommend themselves to their prayers, as they kissed the 
chains and the bruises, which these holy confessors bore for 
Christ. 

This assemblage of men, convicted of serving faithfully 
their divine Master, was useful for another purpose. Like the 
stew in which the luxurious Lucullus kept his lampreys ready 
fattened for a banquet ; like the cages in which rare birds, the 
pens in which well-fed cattle, were preserved for the sacrifice, 
or the feast of an imperial anniversary ; like the dens near the 
amphitheatre, in which ferocious beasts were fed for exhibi- 
tion at the public games ; just so were the public works the 
preserves, from which at any time could be drawn the 
materials for a sanguinary hecatomb, or a gratification of 
the popular appetite for cruel spectacles, on any occasion 
of festivity ; public stores of food for those fierce animals, 
whenever the Koman people wished to share in their savage 
propensities. 

Such an occasion was now approaching. The persecution 
had lingered. No person of note had been yet captured ; the 
failures of the first day had not been fully repaired; and 
something more wholesale was expected. The people 



demanded more sport; and an approaching imperial birth- 
day justitied their gratification. The wild beasts, which 
Sebastian and Pancratius had heard, yet roared for their 
lawful prey. "Christianos ad leo?ies^' might seem to have 
been interpreted by them, as meaning " that the Christians of 
right belonged to them." 

One afternoon, towards the end of December, Corvinus 
proceeded to the Baths of Dioclesian, accompanied by Cat- 
ulus, who had an eye for proper combatants in the amphi- 
theatre, such as a good dealer would have for cattle at a fair. 
He called for Eabirius, the superintendent of the convict 
department, and said to him : 

"Rabirius, I am come by order of the emperor, to select 
a sufficient number of the wicked Christians under your 
charge, for the honor of fighting in the amphitheatre, on 
occasion of the coming festival." 

" Really," answered the officer, " I have none to spare. I 
am obliged to finish the work in a given time, and I cannot 
do so, if I aui left short of hands." 

"I cannot help that; others will be got to replace those 
that are taken from you. You must walk Catulus and 
myself through your works, and let us choose those that 
will suit us." 

Rabirius, grumbling at this unreasonable demand, sub- 
mitted nevertheless to it, and took them into a vast area, 
just vaulted over. It was entered by a circular vestibule 
lighted from above, like the Pantheon. This led into one 
of the shorter arms of a cruciform hall of noble dimensions, 
into which opened a number of lesser, though still handsome, 
chambers. At each angle of the hall, where the arms 
intersected one another, a huge granite pillar of one block 
had to be erected. Two were already in their places, one 
was girt with ropes delivered round capstans, ready to be 
raised on the morrow. A number of men were actively 



^ 



employed in making final preparations. Catulus nudged 
Corvinus, and pointed, with bis thumb, to two fine youths, 
who, stripped slave-fashion to their waists, were specimens 
of manly athletic forms. 

" I must have those two, Kabirius," said the willing pur- 
veyor to wild beasts ; " they will do charmingly. I am sure 
they are Christians, they work so cheerfully." 

" I cannot possibly spare them at present. They are 
woi'th six men, or a pair of horses, at least, to me. Wait 
till the heavy work is over, and then they are at your ser- 
vice." 

" What are their names, that I may take a note of them ? 
And mind, keep them up in good condition." 

" They are called Largus and Smaragdus; they are young 
men of excellent family, but work like plebeians, and will go 
with you nothing loth." 

"They shall have their wish," said Corvinus, with great 
glee. And so they had later. 

As they went through the works, however, they picked 
out a number of captives, for many of whom Kabirius made 
resistance, but generally in vain. At length they came near 
one of those chambers which flanked the eastern side of the 
longer arm of the hall. In one of them they saw a number of 
convicts (if we must use the term) resting after their labor. 
The centre of the group was an old num, most venerable in 
appearance, with a long white beard streaming on his breast, 
mild in aspect, gentle in word, cheerful in his feeble action. 
It was the confessor Saturninus, now in his eightieth year, yet 
loaded with two heavy chains. At each side were the more 
youthful laborers, Cyriacus and Sisinnius, of whom it is 
recorded, that, in addition to their own task-work, one on 
each side, they bore up his bonds. Indeed, we are told that 
their particular delight was, over and above their own assigned 
portion of toil, to help their weaker brethren, and perform 



their work for them.* But their time was not yet come ; for 
both of them, before they received their crowns, were ordained 
deacons in the next pontificate. 

Several other captives lay on the ground, about the old 
man's feet, as he, seated on a block of marble, was talking to 
them, with a sweet gravity, which riveted their attention, and 
seemed to make them forget their sufferings. What was he 
saying to them ? Was he requiting Cyriacus for his extraor- 
dinary charity, by telling him that, in commemoration of it, 
a portion of the immense pile which they were toiling to raise, 
would be dedicated to God, under his invocation, become a 
title, and close its line of titulars by an illustrious name ? t 
Or was he recounting another more glorious vision, how this 
smaller oratory was to be superseded and absorbed by a 
glorious temple in honor of the Queen of Angels, which should 
comprise the entire of tliat superb hall, with its vestibule, 
under the directing skill of the mightiest artistic genius that 
the world should ever see ? t What more consoling thought 
could have been vouchsafed to those poor oppressed captives, 
than that they were not so much erecting baths for the luxury 
of a heathen people, or the prodigality of a wicked emperor, as 
in truth building up one of the stateliest churches in which 
the true God is worshipped, and the Virgin Mother, who bore 
Him incarnate, is affectionately honored ? 

From a distance Corvinus saw the group ; and pausing, 
asked the superintendent the names of those who composed it. 
He enumerated them readily ; then added, " You may as well 

* See Piazza, on the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, in his work on the 
Stations of Rome. 

f The last cardinal of the extinct title of St. Cyriacus's, formed out of a part 
of these Baths, was Cardinal Bembo. 

\ Michelangelo. The noble and beautiful church of Sta. Maria degli Angeli 
was made by him out of the central haU and circular vestibule, described in the 
text. The floor was afterwards raised, and thus the pillars were shortened, and 
the height of the building diminished by several feet. 



take that old man, if you like ; for he is not worth his keep, 
as far as work goes." 

"Thank you," replied Corvinus, "a pretty figure he would 
cut in the amphitheatre. The people are not to be put off 
with decrepit old creatures, whom a single stroke of a bear's 
or tiger's paw kills outright. They like to see young blood 
flowing, and plenty of life struggling against wounds and 
blows, before death comes to decide the contest. But there is 
one there whom you have not named. His face is turned 
from us; he has not the prisoner's garb, nor any kind of 
fetter. Who can it be ? " 

" I do not know his name," answered Rabirius; "but he 
is a fine youth, who spends much of his time among the con- 
victs, relieves them, and even at times helps them in their 
work. He pays, of course, well for being allowed all this ; so 
it is not our business to ask questions." 

" But it is mine, though," said Corvinus, sharply ; and he 
advanced for this purpose. The voice caught the stranger's 
ear, and he turned round to look. 

Corvinus sprung upon him with the eye and action of a 
wild beast, seized him, and called out, with exultation, " Fet- 
ter him instantly. This time at least, Pancratius, thou shalt 
not escape." 




A Monogram of Clirist, found in the Catacombs. 



u u ® 




CHAPTER XXI. 
THE PRISON. 

'F a modern Christian wishes really to know 
what his forefathers underwent for the 
faith, during three centuries of persecution, 
we would not have him content himself 
with visiting the catacombs, as we have 
tried to make him do, and thus learning 
what sort of life they were compelled to 
lead ; but we would advise him to peruse 
those imperishable records, the Acts of the Martyrs, which will 
show him how they were made to die. We know of no writ- 
ings so moving, so tender, so consoling, and so ministering of 
strength to faith and to hope, after God's inspired words, as 
these venerable monuments. And if our reader, so advised, 
have not leisure sufficient to read much ujDon this subject, we 
would limit him willingly to one specimen, the genuine Acts 
of SS. Perpetua and Felicitas. It is true that they will be 
best read by the scholar in their plain African latinity ; but 
we trust that some one will soon give us a worthy English 
version of these, and some other similar, early Christian docu- 
ments. The ones which we have singled out are the same as 
were known to St. Augustine, and cannot be i-ead by any one 
without emotion. If the reader would compare the morbid 
sensibility, and the overstrained excitement, endeavored to be 
produced by a modern French writer, in the imaginary journal 



of a culprit condemned to death, down to the immediate 
approach of execution, with the unaffected pathos, and charm- 
ing truthfuhiess, which pervades the corresponding narrative 
of Vivia Perpetua, a delicate lady of twenty-one years of age, 
he would not hesitate in concluding, how much moie natural, 
graceful, and interesting ai-e the simple recitals of Christianity, 
than the boldest fictions of romance. And when our minds 
are sad, or the petty persecutions of our times incline our feeble 
hearts to nmrmur, we cannot do better than turn to that really 
golden, because truthful legend, or to the history of the noble 
martyrs of Vienne, or Lyons, or to the many similar, still 
extant records, to nerve our courage, by the contemplation of 
what children and women, catechumens and slaves, suffered, 
unmurmuring, for Christ. 

But we are wandering from our narrative. Pancratius, 
with some twenty more, fettered, and chained together, were 
led through the streets to prison. As they were thus dragged 
along, staggering and stumbling helplessly, they were unmer- 
cifully struck by the guards who conducted them ; and any 
persons near enough to reach them, dealt them blows and 
kicks without remorse. Those further off pelted them with 
stones or offal, and assailed them with insulting ribaldry.* 
They reached the Mamertine prison at last, and were thrust 
down into it, and found there already other victims, of both 
sexes, awaiting their time of sacrifice. The youth had just 
time, while he was being handcuffed, to request one of the 
captors to inform his mother and Sebastian of what had hap- 
pened, and he slipped his purse into his hand. 

A prison in ancient Rome was not the place to which a 
poor man might court committal, hoping there to enjoy better 
fare and lodging than he did at home. Two or three of these 
dungeons, for they are nothing better, still remain ; and a brief 
description of the one which we have mentioned will give our 

* See the account of St. Pothinus, Ruinart, i. p. 145. 



readers some idea of what confessorship cost, independent of 
martyidom. 

The Mamertine prison is composed of two square subterra- 
nean chambers, one below the other, with only one round 
aperture in the centre of each vault, through which alone 
light, air, food, furniture, and men could pass. When the 
upper story was full, we may imagine how much of the two 
first could reach the lower. No other means of ventilation, 




The Mamertine Prison. 



drainage, or access could exist. The walls, of large stone 
blocks, had, or rather have, rings fastened into them for secur- 
ing the prisoners ; but many used to be laid on the floor, with 
their feet fastened in the stocks ; and the ingenious cruelty of 
the persecutors often increased the discomfort of the damp 
stone floor, by strewing with broken potsherds this only bed 
allowed to the mangled limbs, and welted backs, of the tor- 
tured Christians. Hence we have in Africa a company of 
martyrs, headed by SS. Saturninus and Dativus, who all per- 
ished through their suiferings in pi'ison. And the acts of the 



Lyonese martyrs inform us that many new-comers expired in the 
jail, killed by severities, before their bodies had endured any 
torments ; while, on the contrary, some who I'eturned to it so 
cruelly tortured that their recovery appeared hopeless, without 
any medical or other assistance, there regained their health.* 
At the same time the Christians bought access to these abodes 
of pain, but not of sorrow, and furnished whatever could, 
under such circumstances, relieve the sufferings and increase 
the comforts, temporal and spiritual, of these most cherished 
and venerated of their brethren. 

Roman justice required at least the outward forms of trial, 
and hence the Christian captives were led from their dun- 
geons before the tribunal ; where they were subjected to an 
interrogatory, of which most precious examples have been 
preserved in the proconsular Acts of Martyrs, just as they 
were entered by the secretary or registrar of the court. 

When the Bishop of Lyons, Pothinus, now in his ninetieth 
year, was asked, "Who is the God of the Christians?" he 
replied, with simple dignity, " If thou shalt be worthy, thou 
shalt know." t Sometimes the judge would enter into a dis- 
cussion with his prisoner, and necessarily get the worst of it ; 
though the latter would seldom go further with him than 
simply reiterating his plain profession of the Christian faith. 
Often, as in the case of one Ptolomaeus, beautifully recited by 
St. Justin, and in that of St. Perpetua, he was content to ask 
the simple question. Art thou a Christian? and upon an 
affirmative reply, proceeded to pronounce capital sentence. 

Pancratius and his companion stood before the judge ; for 
it wanted only three days to the miinus, or games, at which 
they were to " fight with wild beasts." 

" What art thou ? " he asked of one. 

" I am a Christian, by the help of God," was the rejoinder. 

* Ruinart, p. 145. 

f " Si dignus fueris, cognosces." lb. 



" And who art thou ? " said the prefect to Rusticus. 

"I am, indeed, a slave of Caesar's," answered the prisoner; 
" but becoming a Christian, I have been freed by Christ Him- 
self; and by His grace and mercy I have been made partaker 
of the same hope as those whom you see." 

Then turning to a holy priest, Lucianus, venerable for his 
years and his virtues, the judge thus addressed him : " Come, 
be obedient to the gods themselves, and to the imperial 
edicts." 

"No one," answered the old man, "can be reprehended 
or condemned who obeys the precepts of Jesus Christ our 
Saviour." 

"What sort of learning and studies dost thou pursue? " 

" I have endeavored to master every science, and have 
tried every variety of learning. But finally I adhered to the 
doctrines of Christianity, although they do not please those 
who follow the wanderings of false opinions." 

" Wretch ! dost thou find delight in that learning ? " 

"The greatest; because I follow the Christians in right 
doctrine." 

" And what is that doctrine ? " 

" The right doctrine, which we Christians piously hold, is 
to believe in one God, the Maker and Creator of all things 
visible and invisible ; and to confess the Lord Jesus Christ 
the Son of God, anciently foretold by the prophets, who will 
come to judge mankind, and is the preacher and master of 
salvation, to those who will learn well under Him. I indeed, 
as a mere man, am too weak and insignificant to be able to 
utter any thing great of His infinite Deity : this ofiice belongs 
to the prophets." * 

"Thou art, methinks, a master of error to others, and 
deservest to be more severely punished than the rest. Let 
this Lucianus be kept in the nerve (stocks) with his feet 

* Acts of St. Justin. Ruinart, p. 129. 



stretched to the fifth hole.* — And you two women, what are 
your names and condition?" 

" I am a Christian, who have no spouse but Christ. My 
name is Secunda," replied the one. 

"And I am a widow, named Eufina, professing the same 
savdng faith," continued the other. 

At length, after having put similar questions, and receiving 
similar answers from all the others, except from one wretched 
man, who, to the grief of the rest, wavered and agreed to offer 
sacrifice, the prefect turned to Pancratius, and thus addressed 
him : " And now, insolent youth, who hadst the audacity to 
tear down the edict of the divine emperors, even for thee 
there shall be mercy, if yet thou wilt sacrifice to the gods. 
Show thus at once thy piety and thy wisdom, for thou art yet 
but a stripling." 

Pancratius signed himself with the sign of the saving 
cross, and calmly replied, " I am the servant of Christ. Him 
I acknowledge by my mouth, hold firm in my heart, inces- 
santly adore. This youth which you behold in me has the 
wisdom of grey hairs if it worship but one God. But your 
gods, with those who adore them, are destined to eternal 
destruction." t 

" Strike him on the mouth for his blasphemy, and beat 
him with rods," exclaimed the angry judge. 

"I thank thee," replied meekly the noble youth, "that 
thus I suffer some of the same punishment as was inflicted 
on my Lord."t 

The prefect then pronounced sentence in the usual form. 
"Lucianus, Pancratius, Rusticus, and others, and the women 
Secunda and Rufina, who have all owned themselves Chris- 
tians, and refuse to obey the sacred emperor, or worship the 

* This is mentioned as the extreme possible extension, 
f lb. p. 56, Acts of St. Felicitas and her sons. 
X p. 320, Acts of St. Perpetua, &c. 



gods of Rome, we order to be exposed to wild beasts, in the 
Flavian amphitheatre." 

The mob howled with delight and hatred, and accompa- 
nied the confessors back to their prison with this rough 
music ; but they were gradually overawed by tho dignity of 
their gait, and the shining calmness of their countenances. 
Some men asserted that they must have perfumed themselves, 
for they could perceive a fragrant atmosphere surrounding 
their persons.* 

* P13. 319 and 146, Acts of Lyonese Martyrs. 




Blussecl Virgin, from a portrait found in tlie Cemetery of St. Agnes. 



CHAPTER XXII. 



THE VIATICUM. 




TEUE contrast to the fuiy and discord 
without, was the scene within the prison. 
Peace, serenity, cheerMness, and joy 
reigned there ; and the rough stone walls 
and vaults re-echoed to the chant of 
psalmody, in which Pancratius was pre- 
centor, and in which depth called out to 
depth; for the prisoners in the lower 
dungeon responded to those above, and kept up the alterna- 
tion of verses, in those psalms which the circumstances natu- 
rally suggested. 

The eve of " fighting with," that is being torn to pieces 
by, wild beasts, was always a day of greater liberty. The 
friends of the intended victims were admitted to see them ; 
and the Christians boldly took full advantage of the permis- 
sion to flock to the prison, and commend themselves to the 
prayers of the blessed confessors of Christ. At evening they 
were led forth to enjoy what was called the free supper, 
that is, an abundant, and even luxurious, public feast. The 
table was surrounded by pagans, curious to watch the con- 
duct and looks of the morrow's combatants. But they 
could discern neither the bravado and boisterousness, nor the 
dejection and bitterness of ordinary culprits. To the guests 
it was truly an agape, or love-feast; for they supped with 
calm joyfulness amidst cheerful conversation. Pancratius, 



Li U ®) 






t^i 



however, once or twice reproved the unfeeling curiosity, and 
rude remarks of the crowd, saying, "To-morrow is not suffi- 
cient for you, because you love to look upon the objects of 
your future hatred. To-day you are our friends ; to-morrow 
our foes. But mark well our countenances, that you may 
know them again in the day of judgment." Many retired 
at this rebuke, and not a few were led by it to conversion.* 

But while the persecutors thus prepared a feast for the 
bodies of their victims, the Church, their mother, had been 
preparing a much more dainty banquet for the souls of her 
children. They had been constantly attended on by the dea- 
cons, particularly Reparatus, who would gladly have joined 
their company. But his duty forbade this at present. After, 
therefore, having provided as well as possible for their tem- 
poral wants, he had arranged with the pious priest Dionysius, 
who still dwelt in the house of Agnes, to send, towards even- 
ing, sufficient portions of the Bread of Life, to feed, early 
in the morning of their battle, the champions of Christ. 
Although the deacons bore the consecrated elements from the 
principal church to others, where they were only distributed 
by the titulars, the office of conveying them to the martyrs in 
prison, and even to the dying, was committed to inferior min- 
isters. On this day, that the hostile passions of heathen 
Rome were unusually excited by the coming slaughter of so 
many Christian victims, it was a work of more than common 
danger to discharge this duty. For the revelations of Tor- 
quatus had made it known that Fulvius had carefully noted 
all the ministers of the sanctuary, and given a description 
of them to his numerous active spies. Hence they could 
scarcely venture out by day, unless thoroughly disguised. 

The sacred Bread was prepared, and the priest turned 
round from the altar on which it was placed, to see who 
would be its safest bearer. Before any other could step for- 

* Acts of Lionese Martyrs, p. 319. 



® U Li 



ward, the young acolyte Tarcisius knelt at his feet. With 
his hands extended before him, ready to receive the sacred 
deposit, with a countenance beautiful in its lovely innocence 
as an angel's, he seemed to entreat for preference, and even 
to claim it. 

"Thou art too young, my child," said the kind priest, 
filled with admiration of the picture before him. 

" My youth, holy father, will be my best protection. Oh ! 
do not refuse me this great honor." The tears stood in the 
boy's eyes, and his cheeks glowed with a modest emotion as 
he spoke these words. He stretched forth his hands eagerly, 
and his entreaty was so full of fervor and courage that the 
plea was irresistible. The j)riest took the Divine Mysteries 
wrapped up carefully in a linen cloth, then in an outer cover- 
ing, and put them on his palms, saying : 

" Remember, Tarcisius, what a treasure is intrusted to thy 
feeble care. Avoid public places as thou goest along; and 
remember that holy things must not be delivered to dogs, nor 
pearls be cast before swine. Thou wilt keep safely God's 
sacred gifts? " 

" I will die rather than betray them," answered the holy 
youth, as he folded the heavenly trust in the bosom of his 
tunic, and with cheerful reverence started on his journey. 
There was a gravity beyond the usual expression of his years 
stamped upon Ids countenance, as lie tripped lightly along the 
streets, avoiding equally the more public, and the too low, 
thoroughfares. 

As he was approaching the door of a large mansion, its 
mistress, a rich lady without children, saw him coming, and 
was struck with his beauty and sweetness, as, with arms 
folded on his breast, he was hastening on. " Stay, one 
moment, dear child," she said, putting herself in his way: 
" tell me thy name, and where do thy parents live? " 

" I am Tarcisius, an orphan boy," he replied, looking up, 



smilingly ; " and I have no home, save one which it might be 
displeasing to thee to hear." 

" Then come into my house and rest ; I wish to speak to 
thee. Oh, that I had a child like thee ! " 

" Not now, noble lady, not now. I have intrusted to me a 
most solemn and sacred duty, and I must not tarry a moment 
in its performance." 

" Then promise to come to me to-morrow ; this is my house." 

" If I am alive, I will," answered the boy with a kindled 
look, which made him appear to her as a messenger from a 
higher sphere. She watched him a long time, and after some 
deliberation determined to follow him. Soon, however, she 
heard a tumult with horrid cries, which made her pause, on 
her way, until they had ceased, when she went on again. 

In the meantime, Tarcisius, with his thoughts fixed on 
better things than her inheritance, hastened on, and shortly 
came into an open space, where boys, just escaped from school, 
were beginning to play. 

"We just want one to make up the game ; where shall we 
get him ? " said their leader. 

" Capital ! " exclaimed another, " here comes Tarcisius, 
whom I have not seen for an age. He used to be an excellent 
hand at all sports. Come, Tarcisius," he added, stopping him 
by seizing his arm, '' whither so fast ? take a part in our game, 
that's a good fellow." 

"I can't, Petilius, now; I really can't. lam going on 
business of great importance." 

"But you shall," exclaimed the first speaker, a strong and 
bullying youth, laying hold of him. " I will have no sulking, 
Avhen I want any thing done. So come, join us at once." 

" I entreat you," said the poor boy feelingly, " do let me go." 

"No such thing," replied the other. "What is that you 
seem to be carrying so carefully in your bosom ? A letter, I 
suppose ; well, it will not addle by being for half an hour out 



of its nest. Give it to me, and I will put it by safe while 
we play." And lie snatched at the sacred deposit in his 
breast. 

" Never, never," answered the child, looking up towards 
heaven. 

" I will see it," insisted the other rudely ; "I will know 
what is this wonderful secret." And he commenced pulling 
hiui roughly about. A crowd of men from the neighborhood 
soon got round ; and all asked eagerly what was the matter. 
They saw a boy, who, with folded arms, seemed endowed with 
a suj)ernatural strength, as he resisted every effort of one 
much bigger and stronger, to make him reveal what he was 
bearing. Cuffs, jduIIs, blows, kicks seemed to have no effect. 
He bore them all without a murmur, or an attempt to retaliate ; 
but he unflinchingly kept his purpose. 

"What is it? what can it be?" one began to ask the 
other; wlien Fulvius chanced to pass by, and joined the circle 
round the combatants. He at once recognized Tarcisius, hav- 
ing seen him at the Ordination ; and being asked, as a better- 
dressed man, the same question, he replied contemptuously, as 
he turned on his heel, "What is it? Why, only a Christian 
ass, bearing the mysteries." * 

This was enough. Fulvius, while he scorned such unprofit- 
able prey, knew well the effect of his word. Heathen curiosity, 
to see the mysteries of the Christians revealed, and to insult 
them, was aroused, and a general demand was made to Tar- 
cisius, to yield up his charge. "Never with life," was his 
only reply. A heavy blow from a smith's fist nearly stunned 
him, while the blood flowed from the wound. Another and 
another followed, till, covered with bruises, but with his arms 
crossed fast upon his breast, he fell heavily on the ground. 
The mob closed upon him, and were just seizing him, to tear 
open his thrice-holy trust, when they felt themselves pushed 

* A sinus por tans mysteria, a Latiu proverb. 



aside, right and left, by some giant strength. Some went i-eel- 
ing to the further side of the square, others were spun round 
and round, they knew not how, till they fell where they were, 
and the rest retired before a tall, athletic officer, who was the 
author of this overtlirow. He had no sooner cleared the ground, 
than he was on his knees, and with tears in his eyes, raised up 
the bruised and fainting boy, as tenderly as a mother could have 
done, and in most gentle tones asked him, "Are you much 
hurt, Tarcisius ? " 

"Never mind me, Quadratus," answei'ed he, opening his 
eyes with a smile ; " but I am carrying the divine mysteries ; 
take care of them." 

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold rever- 
ence, as if bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful 
sacrifice, a martyr's relics, but the very King and Lord of 
Martyrs, and the divine Victim of eternal salvation. The 
child's head leaned in confidence on the stout soldier's neck, 
but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody of 
the confided gift ; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the 
hallowed double burden wdiich he carried. No one stopped 
him, till a lady met him and stared amazedly at him. She 
drew nearer, and looked closer at what he carried. "Is it 
possible?" she exclaimed with terror, "is that Tarcisius. 
whom I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely ? Who 
can have done this? " 

"Madam," replied Quadratus, "they have murdered him 
because he was a Christian." 

The lady looked for an instant on the child's countenance. 
He opened his eyes upon her, smiled, and expired. From that 
look came the light of faith : she hastened to be a Christian 
likewise. 

The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as 
he removed the child's hands, and took from his bosom, unvio- 
lated, the Holy of holies ; and he thought he looked more like 




-' > r F H c_j 



*Is it possible?" she exclaimed -withi terror, '*is that Tareisius, -whom 
I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely?" 



itrH'r'^fnffW^ifil 



'M 



an angel now, sleeping the martyr's slumber, than he did 
when living scarcely an hour before. Quadratus himself bore 
him to the cemetery of Callistus, where he was buried amidst 
the admiration of older believers ; and later tlie holy Pope 
Damasus composed for him an epitaph, which no one can 
read, without concluding that the belief in the real presence 
of Our Lord's Body in the Blessed Eucharist was the same 
then as now: 

" Tarcisiiim sanctum Christi sacramenta gerentem, 
Cum male sana manus peteret vulgare profanis ; 
Ipse animam potius voluit dimittere csesus 
Prodere quam canibus rabidis coelestia membra."* 

He is mentioned in the Koman martyrology, on the 15th of 
August, as commemorated in the cemetery of Callistus ; whence 
his relics were, in due time, translated to the church of St. 
Sylvester in Campo, as an old inscription declares. 

News of this occurrence did not reach the prisoners till 
after their feast ; and perhaps the alarm that they were to be 
deprived of the spiritual food to which they looked forward for 
strength, was the only one that could have overcast, even 
slightly, the serenity of their souls. At this moment Sebas- 
tian entered, and perceived at once that some unpleasant 
news had arrived, and as quickly divined what it was ; for 
Quadratus had already informed him of all. He cheered up, 
therefore, the confessors of Christ; assured them that they 
should not be deprived of their coveted food ; then whispered 



* " Christ's secret gifts, by good Tarcisius borne, 
The mob profanely bade him to display ; 
He rather gave his own limbs to be torn, 
Than Christ's celestial to mad dogs betray." 

Carmen, x^'iii. 

See also Baronius's notes to the Martyrology. The words " (Christi) coelestia 
memira,^^ applied to the Blessed Eucharist, supply one of those casual, but most 
striking, arguments that result from identity of habitual thought in antiquity, 
more than from the use of studied or conventional phrases. 



a few words to Eeparatus the deacon, who flew out immedi- 
ately with a look of bright intelligence. 

Sebastian, being known to the guards, had passed freely 
in, and out of, the prison daily; and had been indefatigable 
in his care of its inmates. But now he was come to take his 
last farewell of his dearest friend, Pancratius, who had longed 
for this interview. They drew to one side, when the youth 
began : 

" Well, Sebastian, do you remember when we heard the 
wild beasts roar, from your window, and looked at the many 
gaping arches of the amphitheatre, as open for the Christian's 
triumph? " 

" Yes, my dear boy ; I remember that evening well, and it 
seemed to me as if your heart anticipated then, the scenes that 
await you to-morrow." 

" It did, in truth. I felt an inward assurance that I should 
be one of the first to appease the roaring fury of those deputies 
of human cruelty. But now that the time is come, I can 
hardly believe myself worthy of so immense an honor. What 
can I have done, Sebastian, not indeed to deserve it, but to be 
chosen out as the object of so great a grace?" 

" You know, Pancratius, that it is not he who willeth, nor 
he that i-unneth, but God who hath mercy, that maketh the 
election. But tell me rather, how do you now feel about 
to-morrow's glorious destiny ? " 

" To tell the truth, it seems to me so magnificent, so far 
bey6nd my right to claim, that sometimes it appears more like 
a vision than a certainty. Does it not sound almost incredible 
to you, that I, who this night am in a cold, dark, and dismal 
prison, shall be, before another sun has set, listening to the 
harping of angelic lyres, walking in the procession of white- 
robed Saints, inhaling the perfume of celestial incense, and 
drinking from the crystal waters of the stream of life? Is 
it not too like what one may read or hear about another. 



w 



but hardly dares to tliink is to be, in a few hours, real of 
himself? " 

" And nothing more than you have described, Pancratius ? " 

"Oh, yes, far more ; far more than one can name without 
presumption. That I, a boy just come out of school, who have 
done nothing for Christ as yet, should be able to say, ' Some- 
time to-morrow, I shall see Him face to face, and adore Him, 
and shall receive from Him a palm and a crown, yea, and an 
affectionate embrace,' — I feel is so like a beautiful hope, that 
it startles me to think it will soon be that no longer. And 
yet, Sebastian," he continued fervently, seizing both his 
friend's hands, " it is true ; it is true ! " 

" And more still, Pancratius." 

"Yes, Sebastian, more still, and more. To close one's eyes 
upon the faces of men, and open them in full gaze on the face 
of God ; to shut them upon ten thousand countenances scowl- 
ing on you with hatred, contempt, and fury, from every step of 
the amphitheatre, and unclose them instantly upon that one 
sunlike intelligence, whose splendor would dazzle or scorch, 
did not its beams surround, and embrace, and welcome us ; to 
dart them at once into the furnace of God's heart, and plunge 
into its burning ocean of mercy and love without fear of 
destruction : surely, Sebastian, it sounds like presumption in 
me to say, that to-morrow — nay, hush! the watchman from 
the capitol is proclaiming midnight — that to-day, to-day, I 
shall enjoy all this ! " 

"Happy Pancratius! " exclaimed the soldier, "you antici- 
pate already by some hours the raptures to come." 

"And do you know, dear Sebastian," continued the youth, 
as if unconscious of the interruption, " it looks to me so good 
and merciful in God, to grant me such a death. How much 
more willingly must one at my age face it, when it puts an 
end to all that is hateful on earth, when it extinguishes but 
the sight of hideous beasts and sinning men, scarcely less 



frightful than they, and hushes only the fiend-like yells of both ! 
How much more trying would it be to part with the last tender 
look of a mother like mine, and shut one's ears to the sweet 
plaint of her patient voice ! True, I shall see her and hear 
her, for the last time, as we have arranged, to-day before my 
fight : but I know she will not unnerve me." 

A tear had made its way into the affectionate boy's eye ; 
but he suppressed it, and said with a gay tone : 

" But, Sebastian, you have not fulfilled your promise, — 
your double promise to me, — to tell me the secrets you con- 
cealed from me. This is your last opportunity ; so, come, let 
me know all." 

" Do you remember well what the secrets were ? " 

"Eight well, indeed, for they have much perplexed me. 
First on that night of the meeting in your apartments, you 
said there was one motive strong enough to check your ardent 
desire to die for Christ ; and lately you refused to give me 
your reason for despatching me hastily to Campania, and 
joined this secret to the other : how, I cannot conceive." 

" Yet they form but one. I had promised to watch over 
your true welfare, Pancratius: it was a duty of friendship 
and love that I had assumed. I saw your eagerness after 
martyrdom ; I knew the ardent temperament of your youth- 
ful heart ; I dreaded lest you should commit yourself by some 
over-daring action which might tarnish, even as lightly as a 
breath does finely-tempered steel, the purity of your desire, or 
tip with a passing blight one single leaf of your palm. I 
determined, therefore, to restrain my own earnest longings, 
till I had seen you safe through danger. Was this right ? " 

" Oh, it was too kind of you, dear Sebastian ; it was nobly 
kind. But how is this connected with my journey ? " 

" If I had not sent you away, you would have been seized for 
your boldly tearing down the edict, or your rebuke of the judge 
in his court. You would have been certainly condemned, and 




Each one, approaching devoutly, and with tears of gratitude, 
received from his consecrated hand his share, — that is, the 
Twhole of the nnystical food. 

415 



w 



would have sufiered for Christ; but your sentence would 
have proclaimed a different, and a civil, offence ; that of 
rebellion against the emperors. And moreover, my dear boy, 
you would have been singled out for a triumph. You would 
have been pointed at by the veiy heathens with honor, as a 
gallant and daring youth ; you might have been disturbed, 
even in your conflict, by a transient cloud of pride ; at any 
rate, you would have been spared that ignominy which forms 
the distinctive merit and the special glory of dying for sim- 
ply being a Christian." 

" Quite true, Sebastian," said Pancratius with a blush. 

"But when I saw you," continued the soldier, "taken in 
the performance of a generous act of charity towards the con- 
fessors of Christ; when I saw you dragged through the 
streets, chained to a galley-slave, as a common culprit ; when 
I saw you pelted and hooted, like other believers ; when I 
heard sentence pronounced on you in common with the rest, 
because you are a Christian, and for nothing else, I felt that 
my task was ended ; I would not have raised a finger to save 
you." 

" How like God's love has yours been to me, — so wise, so 
generous, and so unsparing!" sobbed out Pancratius, as he 
threw himself on the soldier's neck ; then continued : " Prom- 
ise me one thing more : that this day you will keep near me 
to the end, and will secure my last legacy to my mother." 

" Even if it cost my life, I will not fail. We shall not be 
parted long, Pancratius." 

The deacon now gave notice that all was ready for offering 
up the holy oblation in the dungeon itself. The two youths 
looked round, and Pancratius was indeed amazed. The holy 
priest Lucianus was laid stretched on the floor, with his 
limbs painfully distended in the catasta or stocks, so that he 
could not rise. Upon his breast Reparatus had spread the 
three linen cloths requisite for the altar ; on them was laid 



M 



the unleavened bread, and the mingled chalice, which the 
deacon steadied with his hand. The head of the aged priest 
was held up as he read the accustomed prayers, and per- 
formed the prescribed ceremonies of the oblation and conse- 
cration. And then each one, approaching devoutly, and with 
tears of gratitude, received from his consecrated hand his 
share, — that is, the whole of the Mystical Food.* 

Marvellous and beautiful instance of the power of adapta- 
tion in God's Church ! Fixed as are her laws, her ingenious 
love finds means, through their very relaxation, to demon- 
strate their principles ; nay, the very exception presents only 
a sublimer apjjlication of them. Here was a minister of God, 
and a dispenser of His mysteries, who for once was privileged 
to be, more than others, like Him whom he represented, — at 
once the Priest and the Altar. The Church prescribed that 
the Holy Sacrifice should be offered only over the relics of 
martyrs ; here was a martyr, by a singular prerogative, per- 
mitted to offer it over his own body. Yet living, he "lay 
beneath the feet of God." The bosom still heaved, and the 
heart panted under the Divine Mysteries, it is true ; but that 
was only part of the action of the minister : while self was 
already dead, and the sacrifice of life was, in all but act, com- 
pleted in him. There was only Christ's life within and with- 
out the sanctuary of the breast.t Was ever viaticum for mar- 
tyrs more worthily prepared ? 

* Such a celebration of the Divine Mysteries, by a priest of this name at 
Antioch, is recorded m his Acts. (See Riiinart, torn. iii. p. 183, note.) 
f " I hve now, not I, but Christ liveth in me." Gal. li. 20. 



m 




CHAPTER XXIII 



THE FIGHT. 



HE morning broke light and frosty; 
and the sun, glittering on the gilded 
ornaments of the temples and other public 
buildings, seemed to array them in holiday 
splendor. And the people, too, soon came 
forth into the streets in their gayest attire, decked 
out with unusual richness. The various streams 
converge towards the Flavian amphitheatre, now 
better known by the name of the Coliseum. 
Each one directs his steps to the arch indicated 
by the number of his ticket, and thus the huge 
monster keeps sucking in by degrees that stream 
of life, which soon animates and enlivens its oval tiers over 
tiers of steps, till its interior is tapestried all round with 
human faces, and its walls seem to rock and wave to and fro, 
by the swaying of the living mass. And, after this shall have 
been gorged with blood, and inflamed with fury, it will melt 
once more, and rush out in a thick continuous flow through 
the many avenues by which it entered, now bearing their 
fitting name of Vomitoria ; for never did a more polluted 
stream of the dregs and pests of humanity issue from an unbe- 
coming reservoir, through ill-assorted channels, than the 
Roman mob, drunk with the blood of martyrs, gushing forth 
from the pores of the splendid amphitheatre. 

The emperor came to the games surrounded by his court. 



with all the j)omp and circumstance which befitted an 
imperial festival, keen as any of his subjects to witness the 
cruel games, and to feed his eyes with a feast of carnage. 
His throne was on the eastern side of the amphitheatre, where 
a large space, called the imlmnar, was reserved, and richly 
decorated for the imperial court. 




The Coliseum. 



Various sports succeeded one another ; and many a gladi- 
ator killed, or wounded, had sprinkled the bright sand with 
blood, when the people, eager for fiercer combats, began to call, 
or roar for the Christians and the wild beasts. It is time, 
therefore, for us to think of our captives. 

Before the citizens were astir, they had been removed from 
the prison to a strong chamber called the spoliatorium, the 
press-room, where their fetters and chains were removed. An 
attempt was made to dress them gaudily as heathen priests 
and priestesses ; but they resisted, urging that as they had 
come spontaneously to the fight, it was unfair to make them 
appear in a disguise which they abhorred. During the early 
part of the day they remained thus together encouraging one 
another, and singing the Divine praises, in spite of the shouts 
which drowned their voices from time to time. 

While they were thus engaged, Corvinus entered, and, 



& 



with a look of insolent tminiph, thus accosted Pancra- 
tius : 

"Thanks to the gods, the day is come which I have long 
desired. It has been a tiresome and tough struggle between 
us who should fall uppermost. I have won it." 

"How sayest thou, Corvinus? when and how have I con- 
tended with thee?" 

"Always: every where. Thou hast haunted me in my 
dreams ; thou hast danced before me like a meteor, and I have 
tried in vain to grasp the.e. Thou hast been my tormentor, 
my evil genius. I have hated thee ; devoted thee to the 
infernal gods; cursed thee and loathed thee; and now my 
day of vengeance is come." 

" Methinks," replied Pancratius, smiling, "this does not 
look like a combat. It has been all on one side ; for / have 
done none of these things towards thee." 

"JSTo? thinkest thou that I believe thee, when thou hast lain 
ever as a viper on my path, to bite my heel and overthrow me ? " 

"Where, I again ask? " 

"Every where, I repeat. At school; in the Lady Agnes's 
house ; in the Forum ; in the cemetery ; in my father's own 
court; at Chromatius's villa. Yes, every where." 

" And nowhere else but where thou hast named ? when thy 
chariot was dashed furiously along the Appian way, didst thou 
not hear the tramp of horses' hoofs trying to overtake thee ?" 

"Wretch!" exclaimed the prefect's son in a fury; "and 
was it thy accursed steed which, purposely urged forward, 
frightened mine, and nearly caused my death ? " 

" No, Corvinus, hear me calmly. It is the last time we shall 
speak together. I was travelling quietly with a companion 
towards Rome, after having paid the last rites to our master 
Cassianus " (Corvinus winced, for he knew not this before), 
" when I heard the clatter of a runaway chariot ; and then, indeed, 
I put spurs to my horse ; and it is well for thee that I did." 



"How so?" 

" Because I reached thee just in time : when thy strength 
was nearly exhausted, and thy blood almost frozen by repeated 
plunges in the cold canal; and when thy arm, already 
benumbed, had let go its last stay, and thou wast falling 
backwards for the last time into the water. I saw thee : I 
knew thee, as I took hold of thee, insensible. I had in my 
grasp the murderer of one most dear to me. Divine justice 
seemed to have overtaken him; there was only my will 
between him and his doom. It was my day of vengeance, 
and I fully gratified it." 

" Ha ! and how, pray ? " 

" By drawing thee out, and laying thee on the bank, and 
chafing thee till thy heart resumed its functions; and then 
consigning thee to thy servants, rescued from death." 

"Thouliest!" screamed Corvinus; " my servants told me 
that they drew me out." 

"And did they give thee my knife, together with thy 
leopard-skin purse, which I found on the ground, after I had 
dragged thee forth ? " 

" No ; they said the purse was lost in the canal. It tvas a 
leopard-skin purse, the gift of an African sorceress. What 
sayest thou of the knife ? " 

"That it is here, see it, still rusty with the water; thy 
purse I gave to thy slaves; my own knife I retained for 
myself ; look at it again. Dost thou believe me now ? Have 
I been always a viper on thy path ? " 

Too ungenerous to acknowledge that he had been conquered 
in the struggle between them, Corvinus only felt himself with- 
ered, degraded, before his late school-fellow, crumbled like a 
clot of dust in his hands. His very heart seemed to him to 
blush. He felt sick, and staggered, hung down his head, and 
sneaked away. He cursed the games, the emperor, the yelling 
rabble, the roaring beasts, his horses and chariot, his slaves. 






o 



his father, himself, — every thing and every body except one- 
he could not, for his life, curse Pancratius. 

He had reached the door, when the youth called him 
back. He turned and looked at him with a glance of respect, 
almost approaching to love. Pancratius put his hand on 
his arm, and said, "Corvinus, / have freely forgiven thee. 
There is One above, who cannot forgive without repentance. 
Seek pardon from Him. If not, I foretell to thee this day, 
that by whatsoever death I die, thou too shalt one day perish." 

Corvinus slunk away, and appeared no more that day. 
He lost the sight on which his coarse imagination had 
gloated for days, which he had longed for during months. When 
the holiday was over he was found by his father comjiletely 
intoxicated : it was the only way he knew of drowning remorse. 

As he was leaving the prisoners, the lanista, or master of 
the gladiators, entered the room and summoned them to the 
combat. They hastily embraced one another, and took leave 
on earth. They entered the arena, or pit of the ampitheatre, 
opposite the imperial seat, and had to pass between two files 
of venatores, or huntsmen, who had the care of the wild beasts, 
each armed with a heavy whip, wherewith he inflicted a blow on 
every one as he went by him. They were then brought for- 
ward, singly or in groups, as the people desired, or the directors 
of the spectacle chose. Sometimes the intended prey was placed 
on an elevated platform to be more conspicuous ; at another 
time he was tied up to posts to be more helpless. A favorite 
sport was to bundle up a female victim in a net, and expose 
her to be rolled, tossed, or gored by wild cattle.* One 
encounter with a single wild beast often finished the martyr's 
course ; while occasionally three or four were successively let 
loose, without their inflicting a mortal wound. The confessor 

* See the Acts of the Martyrs of Lyons, Ruinart, vol. i. p. 153 (where will be 
found the account of the martyrdom of a youth of fifteen), and those of St. Per- 
petua and Felicitas, p. 231. 



was then either remanded to prison for further torments, or 
taken back to the s])oliatorium, where the gladiator's appren- 
tices amused themselves with despatching him. 

But we must content ourselves with following the last 
steps of our youthful hero, Pancratius. As he was passing 
through the corridor that led to the amphitheatre, he saw 
Sebastian standing on one side, with a lady closely enwrapped 
in her mantle, and veiled. He at once recognized her, 
stopped before her, knelt, and taking her hand, affectionately 
kissed it. 

"Bless me, dear mother," he said, "in this your promised 
hour." 

"See, my child, the heavens," she replied, "and look up 
thither, where Christ with His saints expecteth thee. Fight 
the good fight for thy soul's sake, and show thyself faithful 
and steadfast in thy Saviour's love.* Remember him too 
whose precious relic thou bearest round thy neck." 

"Its price shall be doubled in thine eyes, my sweet 
mother, ere many hours are over." 

" On, on, and let us have none of this fooling," exclaimed 
the kim'sfa, adding a stroke of his cane. 

Lucina retreated ; while Sebastian pressed the hand of her 
son, and whispered in his ear, " Courage, dearest boy ; may 
God bless you ! I shall be close behind the emperor ; give 
me a last look there, and — your blessing." 

"Ha! ha! ha!" broke out a fiendish tone close behind 
him. Was it a demon's laugh? He looked behind, and 
caught only a glimpse of a fluttering cloak rounding a pillar. 
Who could it be? He guessed not. It was Fulvius, who in 
those words had got the last link in a chain of evidence that 
he had long been weaving — that Sebastian was certainly a 
Christian. 

Pancratius soon stood in the midst of the arena, the last 

* See the Acts of St. Felicitas aud her seven sons, Ruinart, vol. i. p. 55. 



of the faithful band. He had been reserved, in hopes that 
the sight of others' sufferings might shake his constancy ; but 
the effect had been the reverse. He took his stand where he 
was placed, and his yet delicate frame contrasted with the 
swarthy and brawny limbs of the executioners who sur- 
rounded him. They now left him alone; and we cannot 
better describe him than Eusebius, an eye-witness, does a 
youth a few years older : 

"You might have seen a tender youth, who had not yet 
entered his twentieth year, standing without fetters, with his 
hands stretched forth in the form of a cross, and praying to 
God most attentively, with a fixed and untrembling heart; 
not retiring from the place where he first stood, nor swerving 
tlie least, while bears and leopards, breathing fury and death 
in their very snort, were just rushing on to tear his limbs in 
pieces. And yet, I know not how, their jaws seemed seized 
and closed by some divine and mysterious power, and they 
drew altogether back." * 

Such was the attitude, and such the privilege of our heroic 
youth. The mob were frantic, as they saw one wild beast 
after another careering madly round him, roaring, and lashing 
its sides with its tail, while he seemed placed in a charmed 
circle which they could not approach. A furious bull, let 
loose npon him, dashed madly forward, with his neck bent 
down, then stopped suddenly, as though he had struck his 
head against a wall, pawed the ground, and scattered the 
dust around him, bellowing fiercely. 

"Provoke him, thou coward ! " roared out, still louder, the 
enraged emperor. 

Pancratius awoke as from a trance, and waving his arms 
ran towards his enemy ;t but the savage brute, as if a lion had 

* Hist. Eccles. lib. viii. c. 7. 

f Euseb. Hid. See also St. Ignatius's letter to the Romans, in his Acts, ap. 
Ruinart, vol. i. p. 40. 



been rushing on him, turned round and ran away towards the 
entrance, where, meeting his keeper, lie tossed him high into 
the air. All were disconcerted except the brave youth, who 
had resumed his attitude of prayer ; when one of the crowd 
shouted out : "He has a charm round his neck ; he is a sor- 
cerer!" The whole multitude re-echoed the cry, till the 
emperor, having commanded silence, called out to him, "Take 
that amulet from thy neck, and cast it from thee, or it shall 
be done more roughly for thee." 

"Sire," replied the youth, with a musical voice, that rang 
sweetly through the hushed amphitheatre, "it is no charm 
that I wear, but a memorial of my father, who in this very 
place made gloriously the same confession which I now hum- 
bly make ; I am a Christian ; and for love of Jesus Chiist, 
God and man, I gladly give my life. Do not take from me 
this only legacy, which I have bequeathed, richer than I 
received it, to another. Try once more ; it was a panther 
Avhich gave him his crown ; perhaps it will bestow the same 
on me." 

For an instant there was dead silence; the multitude 
seemed softened, won. The graceful form of the gallant 
youth, his now inspired countenance, the thrilling music of 
his voice, the intrepidity of his speech, and his generous self- 
devotion to his cause, had wrought upon that cowardly herd. 
Pancratius felt it, and his heart quailed before their mercy 
more than before their rage ; he had promised himself heaven 
that day ; was he to be disappointed ? Tears started into his 
eyes, as stretching forth his arms once more in the form of a 
cross, he called aloud, in a tone that again vibrated through 
every heart : 

"To-day; oh yes, to-day, most blessed Lord, is the 
appointed day of Thy coming. Tarry not longer; enough 
has Thy power been shown in me to them that believe not in 
Thee ; show now Thy mercy to me who in Thee believe ! " 




Paneratius -was still standing in tlie same place, facing the 
emperor, apparently so absorbed in higher thoughts, as not 
to heed the movements of his enerr>v. 



487 



^ 



"The panther!" shouted out a voice. "The panther!" 
resjjonded twenty. "The panther!" thundered forth a hun- 
dred thousand, in a chorus like the roaring of an avalanche.* 
A cage started up, as if by magic, from the midst of the sand, 
and as it rose its side fell down, and freed the captive of the 
desert, t With one graceful bound the elegant savage gained 
its liberty; and, though enraged by darkness, confinement, 
and hunger, it seemed almost playful, as it leaped and turned 
about, frisked and gambolled noiselessly on the sand. At last 
it caught sight of its prey. All its feline cunning and cruelty 
seemed to return, and to conspire together in animating the 
cautious and treacherous movements of its velvet-clothed 
frame. The whole amphitheatre was as silent as if it had 
been a hermit's dell, while every eye was intent, watching 
the stealthy approaches of the sleek brute to its victim. Pan- 
cratius was still standing in the same place, facing the em- 
peror, apparently so absorbed in higher thoughts as not to 
heed the movements of his enemy. The panther had stolen 
round him, as if disdaining to attack him except in front. 
Crouching upon its breast, slowly advancing one paw before 
another, it had gained its measured distance, and there it lay 
for some moments of breathless suspense. A deep snarl- 
ing growl, an elastic spring through the air, and it was 
seen gathered up like a leech, with its hind feet on the 
chest, and its fangs and fore claws on the throat of the 
martyr. 

He stood erect for a moment, brought his right hand to 
his mouth, and looking up at Sebastian with a smile, directed 
to him, by a graceful Avave of his arm, the last salutation 
of his lips — and fell. The arteries of the neck had been 
severed, and the slumber of martyrdom at once settled on 

* The amphitheatre could contain 150,000. 

f This was an ordinary device. The underground constructions for its prac- 
tice have been found in the Coliseum. 



his eyelids. His blood softened, brightened, enriched, and 
blended inseparably with that of his father, which Lucina 
had hung about his neck. The mother's sacrifice had been 
accepted.* 

* The martyr Saburus, torn by a leopard, and about to die, addressed the sol- 
dier Pudens, not yet a Christian, in words of exhortation ; then asked him for the 
ring on his finger, dipped it in his own blood, and gave it back, "leaving him the 
inheritance of the pledge, and the memorial of his blood." Ap. Buinari, vol. i. 
p. 323. 




A Lamp bearing a Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs, 



CHAPTER XXIV. 




THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 



HE body of the young martyr was depos- 
ited in peace on the Aurelian way, in 
the cemetery which soon bore his name, 
and gave it, as we have before observed, 
to the neighboring gate. In times of 
peace a basilica was raised over his tomb, 
and yet stands to perpetuate his honor. 

The persecution now increased its 
fury, and multiplied its daily victims. 
Many whose names have appeared in our 



pages, especially the community of Chromatins' s villa. 



rapidly fell. The first was Zoe, whose dumbness Sebas- 
%lj> tian had cured. She was surprised by a heathen rabble 
praying at St. Peter's tomb, and was hurried to trial, and hung 
with her head over a smoky fire, till she died. Her husband, 
with three others of the same party, was taken, repeatedly 
tortured, and beheaded. Tranquillinus, the father of Marcus 
and Marcellianus, jealous of Zoe's crown, prayed openly at St. 
Paul's tomb ; he was taken and summarily stoned to death. 
His twin sons suffered also a cruel death. The treachery of 
Torquatus, by his describing his former companions, espe- 
cially the gallant Tiburtius, who was now beheaded,* greatly 
facilitated this wholesale destruction. 



* He is commemorated on the 11th of August, with his father Chromatius, 
as has been already observed. 



w^ 



Sebastian moved in the midst of this slaughter, not like a 
builder who saw his work destroyed by a tempest, nor a shep- 
herd who beheld his flock borne off by marauders. He felt 
as a general on the battle-field, who looked only to the vic- 
tory ; counting every one as glorious who gave his life in its 
purchase, and as ready to give his own should it prove to be 
the required price. Every friend that fell before him was a 
bond less to earth, and a link more to heaven ; a care less 
below, a claim more above. He sometimes sat lonely, or 
paused silently, on the spots where he had conversed with 
Pancratius, recalling to mind the buoyant cheerfulness, the 
graceful thoughts, and the unconscious virtue of the amiable 
and comely youth. But he never felt as if they were more 
separated than when he sent him on his expedition to Cam- 
pania. He had redeemed his pledge to him, and now it was 
soon to be his own turn. He knew it well ; he felt the grace 
of martyrdom swelling in his breast, and in tranquil certainty 
he awaited its hour. His preparation was simple : whatever 
he had of value he distributed to the poor, and he settled his 
property, by sale, beyond the reach of confiscation. 

Fulvius had picked up his fair share of Christian spoils ; 
but, on the whole, he had been disappointed. He had not 
been obliged to ask for assistance from the emperor, whose 
presence he avoided ; but he had put nothing by ; he was not 
getting rich. Every evening he had to bear the reproachful 
and scornful interrogatory of Eurotas on the day's success. 
JS'ow, however, he told his stern master — for such he had 
become — that he was going to strike at higher game, the em- 
peror's favorite officer, who must have made a large fortune in 
the service. 

He had not long to wait for his opportunity. On the 9th 
of January a court was held, attended, of course, by all aspir- 
ants for favors, or fearers of imperial wrath. Fulvius was 
there, and, as usual, met with a cold reception. But after 



bearing silently the muttered curses of the royal brute, he 
boldly advanced, dropped on one knee, and thus addressed 
him : 

" Sire, your divinity has often reproached me with having 
made, by my discoveries, but a poor return for your gracious 
countenance and liberal subsidies. But now I have found out 
the foulest of plots, and the basest of ingratitudes, in imme- 
diate contact with your divine person." 

"What dost thou mean, booby?" asked impatiently the 
tyrant. "Speak at once, or I'll have the words pulled out of 
thy throat by an iron hook." 

Fulvius rose, and directing his hand, in accompaniment to 
his words, said with a bitter blandness of tone : "Sebastian is 
a Christian." 

The emperor started from his throne in fury. 

" Thou liest, villain ! Thou shalt prove thy words, or thou 
shalt die such a piecemeal death, as no Christian dog ever 
endured." 

" I have sufficient proof recorded here," he replied, produc- 
ing a parchment, and offering it, kneeling. 

The emperor was about to make an angry answer, when, 
to his utter amazement, Sebastian, with unruffled looks and 
noble mien, stood before him, and in the calmest accents 
said: 

" My liege, I spare you all trouble of proof. I mn a Christian, 
and I glory in the name." 

As Maximian, a rude though clever soldier, without educa- 
tion, could hardly when calm express himself in decent Latin, 
when he was in a passion his language was composed of 
broken sentences, mingled with every vulgar and coarse 
epithet. In this state he was now ; and he poured out on 
Sebastian a torrent of abuse, in which he reproached him with 
every crime, and called him by every opprobrious name, 
within his well-stocked repertory of vituperation. The two 



w 



C 



crimes, however, on which he rung his loudest changes were, 
ingratitude and treachery. He had nui-sed, he said, a vij)er 
in his bosom, a scorpion, an evil demon; and he only won- 
dered he was still alive. 

The Christian officer stood the volley, as intrepidly as ever 
he had borne the enemy's assault, on the field of battle. 

"Listen to me, my royal master," he replied, "perhaps for 
the last time. I have said I am a Christian ; and in this you 
have had the best pledge of your security." 

" How do you mean, ungrateful man ? " 

" Thus, noble emperor : that if you want a body-guard 
around you of men who will spill their last drop of life's blood 
for you, go to the prison and take the Christians from the 
stocks on the floor, and from the fetter-rings on the walls; 
send to the courts and bear away the mutilated confessors 
from the rack and the gridiron ; issue orders to the amphi- 
theatres, and snatch the mangled half that lives from the jaws 
of tigers ; restore them to such shape as yet they are capable 
of, put weapons into their hands, and place them around you ; 
and in this maimed and ill-favored host there wiU be more 
fidelity, more loyalty, more daring for you, than in all your 
Dacian and Pannonian legions. You have taken half their 
blood from them, and they will give you willingly the other 
half." 

" Folly and madness ! " returned the sneering savage. " I 
would sooner surround myself with Avolves than with Chris- 
tians. Your treachery proves enough for me." 

" And what would have prevented me at any time from 
acting the traitor, if I had been one ? Have I not had access 
to your royal person by night as by day ; and have I proved a 
traitor ? No, emperor, none has ever been more faithful than 
I to you. But I have another, and a higher Lord to serve ; 
one who will judge us both ; and His laws I must obey rather 
than yours." 



"And why have you, like a coward, concealed your 
religion? To escape, perhaps, the bitter death you have 
deserved ! " 

" No, su-e ; no more coward than traitor. No one better 
than yourself knows that I am neither. So long as I could 
do any good to my brethren, I refused not to live amidst their 
carnage and my afflictions. But hope had at last died within 
me ; and I thank Fulvius with all my heart, for having, by his 
accusation, spared me the embarrassment of choice between 
seeking death or enduring life." 

"I will decide that point for you. Death is your award; 
and a slow lingering one it shall be. But," he added, in a 
lower tone, as if speaking to himself, "this must not get out. 
All must be done quietly at home, or treachery will spread. 
Here, Quadratus, take your Christian tribune under arrest. 
Do you hear, dolt? Why do you not move?" 

" Because I too am a Christian ! " 

Another burst of fury, another storm of vile language, 
which ended in the stout centurion's being ordered at once to 
execution. But Sebastian was to be differently dealt with. 

" Order Hyphax to come hither," roared the tyrant. In a 
few minutes, a tall, half-naked Numidian made his appear- 
ance. A bow of immense length, a gaily-painted quiver full 
of arrows, and a short broad-sword, were at once the orna- 
ments and the weapons of the captain of the African archers. 
He stood erect before the emperor, like a handsome bronze 
statue, with bright enamelled eyes. 

" Hyphax, I have a job for you to-morrow morning. It 
must be well done," said the emperor. 

" Perfectly, sire," replied the dusky chief, with a grin 
which showed another set of enamels in his face. 

"You see the captain Sebastian?" The negro bowed 
assent. " He turns out to be a Christian ! " 

If Hyphax had been on his native soil, and had trodden 



■M^ 



w 



cnfel 



suddenly on a hooded asp or a scorpion's nest, he could not 
have started more. The thought of being so near a Christian, 
— to him who worshipped every abomination, believed every 
absurdity, practised every lewdness, committed any atrocity ! 

Maximian proceeded, and Hyphax kept time to every 
member of his sentences by a nod, and what he meant to be a 
smile ; — it was hardly an earthly one. 

"You will take Sebastian to your quarters; and early 
to-morrow morning, — not this evening, mind, for I know that 
by this time of day you are all drunk, — but to-morrow morn- 
ing, when your hands are steady, you will tie him to a tree in 
the grove of Adonis, and you will slowly shoot him to death. 
Slowly, mind; none of your fine shots straight through the 
heart or the brain, but plenty of arrows, till he die exhausted 
by pain and loss of blood. Do you understand me ? Then 
take him off at once. And mind, silence ; or else " 




A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs, 




CHAPTER XXV. 



THE RESCUE. 



^ N spite of every attempt at concealment, 



the news was soon spread among all 
connected with the court, that Sebastian 
had been discovered to be a Christian, 
and was to be shot to death on the mor- 
row. But on none did the double intel- 
ligence make such an impression as on 
Fabiola. 
Sebastian a Christian ! she said to her- 
self; the noblest, purest, wisest of Eome's 
nobility a member of that vile, stupid sect ? 
Impossible ! Yet, the fact seems certain. 
Have I, then, been deceived? Was he not 
that which he seemed ? Was he a mean impos- 
tor, who affected virtue, but was secretly a liber- 
tine? Impossible, too! Yes, this was indeed 
She had certain proofs of it. He knew that he 
might have had her hand and fortune for the asking, and he 
had acted most generously and most delicately towards her. 
He was what he seemed, that she was sure — not gilded, but 
gold. 

Then how account for this phenomenon, of a Christian 
being all that was good, virtuous, amiable ? 

One solution never occurred to Fabiola' s mind, that he 



impossible ! 



ffi 



was all this because lie was a Christian. She only saw the 
problem in another form ; how could he be all that he was in 
spite of being a Christian ? 

She turned it variously in her mind, in vain. Then it 
came to her thought thus. Perhaps, after all, good old Chro- 
matins was right, and Christianity may not be what I have 
fancied ; and I ought to have inquired more about it. I am 
sure Sebastian never did the horrible things imputed to Chris- 
tians. Yet every body charges them with them. 

Might there not be a more refined form of this religion, 
and a more grovelling one ; just as she knew there was in her 
own sect, Epicureanism? one coarse, material, wallowing in 
the very mire of sensualism ; the other refined, sceptical and 
reflective. Sebastian would belong to the higher class, and 
despise and loathe the superstitions and vices of the com- 
moner Christians. Such a hypothesis might be tenable ; but 
it was hard to reconcile to her intellect, how a man like that 
noble soldier could, any way, have belonged to that hated 
race. And yet he was ready to die for their faith ! As to Zoe 
and the others, she had heard nothing, for she had only 
returned the day before from a journey made into Campania, 
to arrange her father's affairs. 

What a pity, she thought, that she had not talked more 
to Sebastian on such subjects! But it was now too late; 
to-morrow morning he would be no more. This second 
thought came with the sharp pang of a shaft shot into her 
heart. She felt as if she personally were about to sufl"er a 
loss, as if Sebastian's fate were going to fall on some one 
closely bound to her, by some secret and mysterious tie. 

Her thoughts grew darker and sadder, as she dwelt on 
these ideas amidst the deepening gloom. She was suddenly 
disturbed by the entrance of a slave with a light. It was 
Afra, the black servant, who came to prepare her mistress's 
evening repast, which she wished to take alone. While busy 



with her arrangements, she said, "Have you heard the news, 
madam ? " 

"What news?" 

" Only that Sebastian is going to be shot with arrows 
to-morrow morning. What a pity ; he was such a handsome 
youth ! " 

"Be silent, Afra; unless you have some information to 
give me on the subject." 

"Oh, of course, my mistress; and my information is 
indeed very astonishing. Do you know that he turns out to 
be one of those wretched Christians? " 

" Hold your peace, I pray you, and do not prate any more 
about what you do not understand." 

"Certainly not, if you so wish it; I suppose his fate is 
quite a matter of indifference to you, madam. It certainly is 
to me. He won't be the first officer that my countrymen have 
shot. Many they have killed, and some they have saved. 
But of course that was all chance." 

There was a significance in her Avords and tones, which did 
not escape the quick ear and mind of Fabiola. She looked 
up, for the first time, and fixed her eyes searchingly on her 
maid's swarthy face. There was no emotion in it; she was 
placing a flagon of wine upon the table, just as if she had not 
spoken. At length the lady said to her : 

" Afra, what do you mean ? " 

"Oh, nothing, nothing. What can a poor slave know? 
Still more, what can she do? " 

" Come, come, you meant by your words something that I 
must know." 

The slave came round the table, close to the couch 
on which Fabiola rested, looked behind her, and around 
her, then whispered, " Do you want Sebastian's life pre- 
served ? " 

Fabiola almost leaped up, as she replied, " Certainly." 



urr 



The servant put her finger to her lip, to enforce silence, 
and said, " It will cost dear." 

"Name your j)rice." 

"A hundred sestertia* and my liberty." 

"I accept your terms; but what is my security for 
them ? " 

"They shall be binding only if, twenty-four hours after 
the execution, he is still alive." 

" Agreed ; and what is yours ? " 

"Your word, lady." 

" Go, Afra, lose not a moment." 

" There is no hurry," quietly replied the slave, as she com- 
pleted, untlurried, the preparations for supper. 

She then proceeded at once to the palace, and to the Mau- 
ritanian quarters, and went in directly to the commander. 

"What dost thou want, Jubala," he said, "at this hour? 
There is no festival to-night." 

"I know, Hyphax; but I have important business with 
thee." 

"What is it about?" 

"About thee, about myself, and about thy prisoner." 

" Look at him there," said the barbarian, pointing across 
the court, which his door commanded. " You would not think 
that he is going to be shot to-morrow. See how soundly he 
sleeps. He could not do so better, if he were going to be 
married instead." 

"As thou and I, Hyphax, intend to be the next 
day." 

"Come, not quite so fast; there are certain conditions to 
be fulfilled first." 

" Well, what are they ? " 

" First, thy manumission. I cannot marry a slave." 

"That is secured." 

* About 800?. 



mr 



" Secondly, a dowry, a good dowry, mind ; for I never 
wanted money more than now." 

" That is safe too. How much dost thou expect? " 

" Certainly not less than three hundred pounds."* 

" I bring thee six hundred." 

"Excellent! where didst thou get all this cash? Whom 
hast thou robbed ? whom hast thou poisoned, my admirable 
priestess ? Why wait till after to-morrow ? Let it be to-moi- 
row, to-night, if it please thee." 

" Be quiet now, Hyphax ; the money is all lawful gain ; 
but it has its conditions, too. I said I came to speak about 
the prisoner also." 

" Well, what has he to do with our approaching nuptials ? " 

" A great deal." 

"What now?" 

" He must not die." 

The captain looked at her with a mixture of fury and 
stupidity. He seemed on the point of laying violent hands on 
her; but she stood intrepid and unmoved before him, and 
seemed to command him by the strong fascination of her eye, 
as one of the serpents of their native land might do a 
vulture. 

"Art mad?" he at last exclaimed; "thou mightest as 
well at once ask for my head. If thou hadst seen the 
emperor's face, when he issued his orders, thou wouldst 
have known he will have no trifling with him here." 

" Pshaw ! pshaw ! man ; of course the prisoner will appear 
dead, and will be reported as dead." 

" And if he finally recover ? " 

" His fellow-Christians will take care to keep him out of 
the w^ay." 

"Didst thou say twenty-four hours alive? I wish thou 
hadst made it twelve." 

* We give equivalents in English money, as more intelligible. 



" Well, but I know that thou canst calculate close. Let 
him die in the twenty-fifth hour, for what I care." 

"It is impossible, Jubala, impossible; he is too important 
a person." 

"Very well, then; there is an end to our bargain. The 
money is given only on this condition. Six hundred pounds 
thrown away ! " And she turned off to go. 

" Stay, stay," said Hyphax, eagerly ; the demon of covet- 
ousness coming uppermost. " Let us see. Why, my fellows 
will consume half the money, in bribes and feasting." 

"Well, I have two hundred more in reserve for that." 

" Say est thou so, my princess, my sorceress, my charming 
demon? But that will be too much for my scoundrels. We 
will give them half, and add the other half — to our marriage- 
settlements, shan't we ? " 

" As it pleases thee, provided the thing is done according 
to my iDroposal." 

" It is a bargain, then. He shall live twenty-four hours ; 
and after that, we will have a glorious wedding." 

Sebastian, in the meantime, was unconscious of these 
amiable negotiations for his safety; for, like Peter between 
two guards, he was slumbering soundly by the wall of the 
court. Fatigued with his day's work, he had enjoyed the 
rare advantage of retiring early to rest ; and the marble pave- 
ment was a good enough soldier's bed. But, after a few hours' 
repose, he awoke refreshed ; and now that all was hushed, he 
silently rose, and with outstretched arms, gave himself up to 
prayer. 

The martyr's prayer is not a preparation for death ; for his 
is a death that needs no preparation. The soldier who sud- 
denly declares himself a Christian, bends down his head, and 
mingles his blood with that of the confessor, whom he had 
come to execute ; or the friend, of unknown name, who salutes 
the martyr going to death, is seized, and made to bear him 



If 



willing company,* is as prepared for martyrdom, as he who 
has passed months in prison engaged in prayer. It is not a 
cry, therefore, for the forgiveness of past sin; for there is a 
consciousness of that perfect love, which sendeth out fear, an 
inward assurance of that highest grace, which is incompatible 
with sin. 

JSTor in Sebastian was it a prayer for courage or strength ; 
for the opposite feeling, which could suggest it, was unknown 
to him. It never entered into his mind to doubt, that as he 
had faced death intrepidly for his earthly sovereign on the 
battle-field, so he should meet it joyfully for his heavenly 
Lord, in any place. 

His prayer, then, till morning, was a gladsome hymn of 
glory and honor to the King of kings, a joining with the 
seraph's glowing eyes, and ever-shaking Avings, in restless 
homage. 

Then when the stars in the bright heavens caught his 
eyes, he challenged them as wakeful sentinels like himself, 
to exchange the watchword of Divine praises; and as the 
night-wind rustled in the leafless trees of the neighboring 
court of Adonis, he bade its wayward music compose itself, 
and its rude harping upon the vibrating boughs form softer 
hymns, — the only ones that earth could utter in its winter 
night-hours. 

Now burst on him the thrilling thought that the morning 
hour approached, for the cock had crowed ; and he would soon 
hear those branches murmuring over him to the sharp whistle 
of flying arrows, unerring in their aim. And he offered him- 
self gladly to their sharp tongues, hissing as the serpent's, to 
drink his blood. He offered himself as an oblation for God's 
honor, and for the appeasing of his wrath. He offered him- 
self particularly for the afflicted Church, and prayed that his 
death might mitigate her sufferings. 

* Called thence St. Aclauctus. 



"I IP ^^n® 

J U ®l ^j U Li 



And then his thoughts rose higher, from the earthly to the 
celestial Church; soaring like the eagle from the highest pin- 
nacle of the mountain-peak, towards the sun. Clouds have 
rolled away, and the blue embroidered veil of morning is rent 
in twain, like the sanctuary's, and he sees quite into its 
revealed depths; far, far inwards, beyond senates of saints 
and legions of angels, to what Stephen saw of inmost and 
intensest glory. And now his hymn was silent; harmonies 
came to him, too sweet and perfect to brook the jarring of a 
terrestrial voice ; they came to him, requiring no return ; for 
they brought heaven into his soul ; and what could he give 
back ? It was as a fountain of purest refreshment, more like 
gushing light than water, flowing from the foot of the Lamb, 
and poured into his heart, which could only be passive, and 
receive the gift. Yet in its sparkling bounds, as it rippled 
along towards him, he could see the countenance now of one, 
and then of another of the happy friends who had gone before 
him ; as if they w^ere drinking, and bathing, and disporting, 
and plunging, and dissolving themselves in those living 
waters. 

His countenance was glowing as with the very reflection 
of the vision, and the morning dawn just brightening (oh, what 
a dawn that is!), caught his face as he stood up, with his 
arms in a cross, opposite the east; so that when Hyphax 
opened his door and saw him, he could have crept across the 
court and worshipped him on his face. 

Sebastian awoke as from a trance; and the chink of 
sesterces sounded in the mental ears of Hyphax ; so he set 
scientifically about earning them. He picked out of his troop 
of a hundred, five marksmen, who could split a flying arrow 
with a fleeter one, called them into his room, told them their 
reward, concealing his own share, and arranged how the execu- 
tion was to be managed. As to the body, Christians had 
already secretly offered a large additional sum for its delivery. 



ffi 



and two slaves were to wait outside to receive it. Among his 
own followers he could fully depend on secrecy. 

Sebastian was conducted into the neighboring court of the 
palace, which separated the quarters of these African archers 
from his own dwelling. It was planted with rows of trees, 
and consecrated to Adonis. He walked cheerfully in the 
midst of his executioners, followed by the whole band, who 
were alone allowed to be spectators, as they would have been 
of an ordinary exhibition of good archery. The officer was 
stripped and bound to a tree, while the chosen five took their 
stand opposite, cool and collected. It was at best a desolate 
sort of death. Not a friend, not a sympathizer near ; not one 
fellow-Christian to bear his farewell to the faithful, or to record 
for them his last accents, and the constancy of his end. To 
stand in the middle of the crowded amphitheatre, with a 
hundred thousand witnesses of Christian constancy, to see the 
encouraging looks of many, and hear the whispered blessings 
of a few loving acquaintances, had something cheering, and 
almost inspiring in it ; it lent at least the feeble aid of human 
emotions, to the more powerful sustainment of grace. The 
very shout of an insulting multitude put a strain upon natural 
courage, as the hunter's cry only nerves the stag at bay. But 
this dead and silent scene, at dawn of day, shut up in the 
court of a house ; this being, with most unfeeling indifference 
tied up, like a truss of hay, or a stuffed figure, to be coolly 
aimed at, according to the tyrant's orders ; this being alone 
in the midst of a horde of swarthy savages, whose very lan- 
guage was strange, uncouth, and unintelligible ; but who were 
no doubt uttering their rude jokes, and laughing, as men do 
before a match or a game, which they are going to enjoy ; all 
this had more the appearance of a piece of cruelty, about to be 
acted in a gloomy forest by banditti, than open and glorious 
confession of Christ's name ; it looked and felt more like assas- 
sination than martyrdom. 



drk 



-f:i 



But Sebastian cared not for all this. Angels looked over 
the wall upon him ; and the rising sun, which dazzled his 
eyes, but made him a cleaver mark for his bowmen, shone not 
more brightly on him, than did the countenance of the only 
Witness he cared to have of suffering endured for His sake. 

The first Moor drew his bow-string to his ear, and an 
arrow trembled in the flesh of Sebastian. Each chosen 
marksman followed in turn ; and shouts of applause accom- 
panied each hit, so cleverly approaching, yet avoiding, 
according to the imperial order, every vital part. And so 
the game went on ; every body laughing, and brawling, and 
jeering, and enjoying it without a particle of feeling for the 
now drooj)ing frame, painted with blood ; * all in sport, 
except the martyr, to whom all was sober earnest — each 
sharp pang, the enduring smart, the exhaustion, the weari- 
ness, the knotty bonds, the constrained attitude! Oh! but 
earnest too was the steadfast heart, the untiring spirit, the 
unwavering faith, the unruffled jiatience, the unsated love of 
suffering for his Lord. Earnest was the prayer, earnest the 
gaze of the eye on heaven, earnest the listening of the ear for 
the welcoming strain of the heavenly porters, as they should 
open the gate. 

It was indeed a dreary death ; yet this was not the 
worst. After all, death came not; the golden gates remained 
unbarred; the martyr in heart, still reserved for greater 
glory even upon earth, found himself, not suddenly translated 
from death to life, but sunk into unconsciousness in the lap 
of angels. His tormentors saw when they had reached their 
intended measure ; they cut the cords that bound him ; and 
Sebastian fell exhausted, and to all appearance dead, upon 
the carpet of blood which he had spread for himself on the 
pavement. Did he lie, like a noble warrior, as he now 
appears in marble under his altar, in his own dear church ? 

* "Membraque picta cruore novo." Pried. Trepi are(p. iii. 29. 



ft 



We at least cannot imagine him as more beautiful. And not 
only that church do we love, but that ancient chapel which 
stands in the midst of the ruined Palatine, to mark the spot 
on which he fell.* 

* The reader, when visiting the Crystal Palace, will find in the Eoman Court 
an excellent model of the Eoman Forum. On the raised mound of the Palatine 
hill, between the arches of Titus and Constantine, he will see a chapel of fair 
dimensions standing alone. It is the one to which we allude. It has been lately 
repaired by the Barberini family. 




Ellas earned up to Htaven, fu>m a pimne luuiid m the Catacombs 




a CHAPTER XXVI. 
THE REVIVAL. 

IGHT was far advanced, when the black 
slave, having completed her marriage 
settlement quite to her own satisfac- 
tion, was returning to her mistress's 
house. It was, indeed, a cold wintiy 
night, so she was well wrapped up, and 
in no humor to be disturbed. But it 
was a lovely night, and the moon 
seemed to be stroking, with a, silvery 
hand, the downy robe of the meta sudcms* She paused 
beside it; and, after a silence of some moments, broke 
out into a loud laugh, as if some ridiculous recollection con- 
nected itself in her mind with that beautiful object. She was 
turning round to proceed on her way, when she felt herself 
roughly seized by the arm. 

" If you had not laughed," said her captor, bitterly, " I 
should not have recognized you. But that hyena laugh of 
yours is unmistakable. Listen, the wild beasts, your African 
cousins, are answering it from the amphitheatre. What was 
it about, pray ? " 
" About you." 
" How about me ? " 

" I was thinking of our last interview in this place, and 
what a fool you made of yourself." 

* The fountain before described. 



wrra 



" How kind of you, Afra, to be thinking of me, especially 
as I was not just then thinking of you, but of your country- 
men in those cells." 

" Cease your impertinence, and call people by their proper 
names. I am not Afra the slave any longer ; at least I shall 
not be so in a few . hours ; but Jubala, the wife of Hyphax, 
commander of the Mauritanian archers." 

" A very respectable man, no doubt, if he could speak any 
language besides his gibberish ; but these few hours of inter- 
val may suffice for the transaction of our business. You made 
a mistake, methinks, in what you said just now. It was you, 
was it not, that made a fool of me at our last meeting ? What 
has become of your fair promises, and of my fairer gold, which 
were exchanged on that occasion ? Mine, I know, proved 
sterling; yours, I fear, turned out but dust." 

"No doubt; for so says a proverb in my language : 'the 
dust on a wise man's skirts is better than the gold in the 
fool's girdle.' But let us come to the point ; did you really 
ever believe in the power of my charms and philters? " 

"To be sure I did ; do you mean they were all imposture ? " 

" Not quite all ; you see we have got rid of Fabius, and 
the daughter is in possession of the fortune. That was a pre- 
liminary step of absolute necessity." 

"What! do you mean that your incantations removed the 
father?" asked Corvinus, amazed, and shrinking from her. 
It was only a sudden bright thought of Afra's, so she pushed 
her advantage, saying : 

"To be sure ; what else ? It is easy thus to get rid of any 
one that is too much in the way." 

" Good night, good night," he replied in great fear. 

"Stay a moment," she answered, somewhat propitiated: 
" Corvinus, I gave you two pieces of advice worth all your 
gold that night. One you have acted against ; the other you 
have not followed." 



1^ 

crtr® 



^:i 



"How?" 

" Did I not tell you not to hunt the Christians, but to 
catch them in your toils ? Fulvius has done the second, and 
has gained something. Tou have done the first, and what 
have you earned ? " 

"Nothing but rage, confusion, and stripes." 

" Then I was a good counsellor in the one advice ; follow 
me in the second." 

"What was it?" 

" When you had become rich enough by Christian spoil, to 
offer yourself, wdth your wealth, to Fabiola. She has till now 
coldly rejected every offer; but I have observed one thing 
carefully. Not a single suit has been accompanied by riches. 
Every spendthrift has sought her fortune to repair his own ; 
depend upon it, he that wins the prize must come on the 
principle that two and two make fom". Do you understand 
me ? " 

" Too well, for where are my two to come from ? " 

"Listen to me, Corvinus, for this is our last interview; 
and I rather like you, as a hearty, unscrupulous, relentless, 
and unfeeling good hater." She drew him nearer and whis- 
pered : "I know from Eurotas, out of whom I can wheedle 
anything, that Fulvius has some splendid Christian prizes in 
view, one especially. Come this way into the shadow, and I 
will tell you how surely you may intercept his treasure. 
Leave to him the cool murder that will be necessary, for it 
may be troublesome ; but step in between him and the spoil. 
He would do it to you any day." 

She spoke to him for some minutes in a low and earnest 
tone ; and at the end, he broke out into the loud exclamation, 
" Excellent ! " What a word in such a mouth ! 

She checked him by a pull, and pointing to the building 
opposite, exclaimed : " Hush ! look there ! " 

How are the tables turned ; or, rather, how has the world 






gone round in a brief space ! The last time these two wicked 
beings were on the same spot, plotting bane to others, the 
window above was occupied by two virtuous youths, who, like 
two spirits of good, were intent on unravelling their web of 
mischief, and countermining their dark approaches. They 
are gone thence, the one sleeping in his tomb, the other slum- 
bering on the eve of execution. Death looks to us like a holy 
power, seeing how much he prefers taking to his society the 
good, rather than the evil. He snatches away the flower, 
and leaves the w^eed its poisonous life, till it drops into 
mature decay. 

But at the moment that they looked up, the window was 
occupied by two other persons. 

"That is Fulvius," said Corvinus, "who just came to the 
window." 

"And the other is his evil demon, Eurotas," added the 
slave. They both watched and listened from their dark 
nook. 

Fulvius came again, at that moment, to the window, with 
a sword in his hand, carefully turning and examining the hilt 
in the bright moonlight. He flung it down at last, exclaim- 
ing with an oath, " It is only brass, after all." 

Eurotas came with, to all appearance, a rich officer's belt, 
and examined it carefully. "All false stones! Why, I 
declare the whole of the effects are not worth fifty pounds. 
You have made but a poor job of this, Fulvius." 

" Always reproaching me, Eurotas. And yet this misera- 
ble gain has cost me the life of one of the emperor's most 
favorite officers." 

"And no thanks j^robably from your master for it." 
Eurotas was right. 

JSText morning, the slaves w^ho received the body of Sebas- 
tian were surprised by a swarthy female figure passing by 
them, and whispering to them, " He is still alive." 



irb 



w 



Instead, therefore, of carrying him out for burial, they 
bore him to the apartment of Irene. The early hour of the 
morning, and the emperor's having gone, the evening before, 
to his favorite Lateran palace, facilitated this movement. 
Instantly Dionysius was sent for, and he pronounced every 
wound curable ; not one arrow having touched a vital organ. 
But loss of blood had taken place to such a fearful extent, 
that he considered weeks must elapse before the patient 
would be fit to move. 

For four-and-twenty hours Afra assiduously called, almost 
every hour, to ask how Sebastian was. When the probation- 
ary term was finished, she conducted Fabiola to Irene's apart- 
ment, to receive herself assurance that he breathed, though 
scarcely more. The deed of her liberation from servitude was 
executed, her dowry was paid, and the whole Palatine and 
Forum rung with the mad carouse and hideous rites of her 
nuptials. 

Fabiola inquired after Sebastian with such tender solici- 
tude that Irene doubted not that she was a Christian. The 
first few times she contented herself with receiving intelli- 
gence at the door, and putting into the hands of Sebastian's 
hostess a large sum towards the expenses of his recovery; 
but after two days, when he was improving, she was courte- 
ously invited to enter ; and, for the first time in her life, she 
found herself consciously in the bosom of a Christian family. 

Irene, we are told, was the widow of Castulus, one of the 
Chromatian band of converts. Her husband had just suffered 
death; but she remained still, unnoticed, in the apartments 
held by him in the palace. Two daughters lived with her ; 
and a marked difierence in their behavior soon struck Fabi- 
ola, as she became familiar with them. One evidently 
thought Sebastian's presence an intrusion, and seldom or 
never approached him. Her behavior to her mother was 
rude and haughty, her ideas all belonged to the common 



world, — she was selfish, light, and forward. The other, who 
was the younger, was a perfect contrast to her, — so gentle, 
docile and affectionate; so considerate about othei's; so 
devoted to her mother; so kind and attentive to the poor 
patient. Irene herself was a type of the Christian matron, in 
the middle class of life. Fabiola did not find her intelligent, 
or learned, or witty, or highly polished; but she saw her 
always calm, active, sensible, and honest. Then she was 
clearly warm-hearted, generous, deeply affectionate, and 
sweetly patient. The pagan lady had never seen such a 
household, — so simple, frugal, and orderly. Nothing dis- 
turbed it, except the character of the elder sister. In a few 
days it was ascertained that the daily visitor was not a Chris- 
tian ; but this caused no change in their treatment of her. 
Then she in her turn made a discovery which mortified her — 
that the elder daughter was still heathen. All that she saw 
made a favorable impression on her, and softened the hard 
crust of prejudice on her mind. For the present, however, 
her thoughts were all absorbed in Sebastian, whose recovery 
was slow. She formed plans with Irene for carrying him off 
to her Campanian villa, where she would have leisure to con- 
fer with him on religion. An insuperable obstacle, however, 
rose to this project. 

We will not attempt to lead our reader into the feelings 
of Sebastian. To have yearned after martyrdom, to have 
prayed for it, to have suffered all its pangs, to have died in it 
as far as human consciousness went, to have lost sight of this 
world, and now to awaken in it again, no martyr, but an 
ordinary wayfaring man on j)robation, who might yet lose 
salvation, — was surely a greater trial than martyrdom itself. 
It was to be like a man who, in the midst of a stormy night, 
should try to cross an angry river, or tempestuous arm of the 
sea, and, after struggling for hours, and having his skiff 
twirled round and round and all but upset, should find him- 



self relanded on the same side as he started from. Or, it 
was like St. Paul sent back to earth and to Satan's buffets, 
after having heard the mysterious words which only one 
Intelligence can utter. Yet no murmur escaped him, no 
regret. He adored in silence the Divine Will, hoping that its 
purpose was only to give him the merit of a double martyr- 
dom. For this second crown he so earnestly longed, that he 
rejected every proposal for flight and concealment. 

"I have now," he generously said, "earned one privilege 
of a martyr, that of speaking boldly to the persecutors. This 
I will use the first day that I can leave my bed. Nurse me, 
therefore, well, that it may be the sooner." 




Moses receiving the Law, from a picture in the Cemetery of '* Inter duos Lauros." 



^ 




CHAPTER XXVII. 
THE SECOND CROWN. 

(HE memorable plot which the black slave 
betrayed to Corvinus, was one to which allu- 
sion has already been made, in the conver- 
sation between Fulvius and his guardian. 
He was convinced from the blind martyr's 
unsuspecting admissions, that Agnes was a 
Christian, and he believed he had now two 
strings to his bow ; eitlier he could terrify her into marriage 
with himself, or he could destroy her, and obtain a good share 
of her wealth by confiscation. He was nerved for this second 
alternative by the taunts and exhortations of Eurotas; but, 
despairing of obtaining another interview, he wrote her a 
respectful, but pressing letter, descriptive of his disinterested 
at'tachment to her, and entreating her to accept his suit. 
There was but the faintest hint at the end, that duty might 
compel him to take another course, if humble petition did not 
prevail. 

To this application he received a calm, well-bred, but 
unmistakable refusal ; a stern, final, and hopeless rejection. 
But more, the letter stated in clear terms, that the writer was 
already espoused to the spotless Lamb, and could admit from 
no perishable being expressions of personal attachment. This 
rebuff steeled his heart against pity ; but he determined to 
act prudently. 

In the meantime, Fabiola, seeing the determination of 



nrr 



Sebastian not to fly, conceived the romantic idea of saving 
him, in spite of himself, by extorting his pardon from the 
emperor. She did not know the depth of wickedness in man's 
heart. She thought the tyrant might fume for a moment, but 
that he would never condemn a man twice to death. Some 
pity and mercy, she thought, must linger in his breast ; and 
her earnest pleading and tears would extract them, as heat 
does the hidden balsam from the hard wood. She accordingly 
sent a petition for an audience ; and knowing the covetousness 
of the man, presumed, as she said, to offer him a slight token 
of her own and her late father's loyal attachment. This was 
a ring with jewels of rare beauty, and immense value. The 
present was accepted ; but she was merely told to attend with 
her memorial at the Palatine on the 20th, in common with 
other petitioners, and wait for the emperor's descent by the 
great staircase, on his way to sacrifice. Unencouraging as 
was this answer, she resolved to risk any thing, and do her 
best. 

The appointed day came ; and Fabiola, in her mourning 
habits, worn both as a suppliant, and for her father's death, 
took her stand in a row of far more wretched creatures than 
herself, mothers, children, sisters, who held petitions for 
mercy, for those dearest to them, now in dungeons or mines. 
She felt the little hope she had entertained die within her at 
the sight of so much wretchedness, too much for it all to 
expect favor. But fainter grew its last spark, at every step 
that the tyrant took dow^n the marble stairs, though she saw 
her brilliant ring si:)arkling on his coarse hand. For on 
each step he snatched a paper from some sorrowful sup- 
IDliant, looked at it scornfully, and either tore it up, or 
dashed it on the ground. Only here and there, he handed 
one to his secretary, a man scarcely less imperious than 
himself. 

It was now nearly Fabiola' s turn : the emperor was only 



dtr 



two steps above her, and her heart beat violently, not from 
fear of man, but from anxiety about Sebastian's fate. She 
would have prayed, had she known how, or to whom. Max- 
imian was stretching out his hand to take a paper offered to 
him, when he drew back, and turned round, on hearing his 
name most unceremoniously and peremptorily called out. 
Fabiola looked up too ; for she knew the voice. 

Opposite to her, high in the white marble wall, she had 
observed an open window, corniced in yellow marble, which 
gave light to a back corridor leading to where Irene's apart- 
ments were. She now looked up, guided by the voice, and in 
the dark panel of the window, a beautiful but awful picture 
was seen. It was Sebastian, wan and thin, who, with features 
almost etherealized, calm and stern, as if no longer capable 
of passion, or strong emotion, stood there before them; 
his lacerated breast and arms appearing amidst the loose 
drapery he had thrown around him. For he had heard 
the familiar trumpet-notes, which told him of the emperor's 
approach, and he had risen, and crept thus far, to greet 
him.* 

" Maximian ! " he cried out, in a hollow but distinct 
voice. 

"Who art thou, sirrah! that niakest so free with 
thine emperor's name?" asked the tyrant, turning upon 
him. 

" I am come as from the dead, to warn thee that the day 
of wrath and vengeance is fast approaching. Thou hast spilt 
the blood of God's Saints upon the pavement of this city; 
thou hast cast their holy bodies into the river, or flung them 
away upon the dunghills at the gates. Thou hast pulled 
down God's temples, and profaned His altars, and rifled the 
inheritance of His poor. For these, and thine own foul crimes 
and lewdnesses, thine injustices and oppressions, thy covet- 

* See the Acts of St. Sebastian. 



ousness and thy pride, God hath judged thee, and His wrath 
shall soon overtake thee ; and thou shalt die the death of the 
violent; and God will give His Church an emperor after His 
own heart. And thy memory shall be accursed through the 
whole world, till the end of time. Repent thee, while thou 
hast time, impious man ; and ask forgiveness of God, in the 
name of Him, the Crucified, whom thou hast persecuted 
till now." 

Deep silence was held while these words w^ere fully 
uttered. The emperor seemed under the influence of a 
paralyzing awe; for soon recognizing Sebastian, he felt as 
if standing in the presence of the dead. But quickly recover- 
ing himself and his passion, he exclaimed: "Ho! some of 
you, go round instantly and bring him before me " (he did not 
like to pronounce his name). "Hyphax here! Where is 
Hyphax? I saw him just now." 

But the Moor had at once recognized Sebastian, and run 
off to his quarters. "Ha! he is gone, I see; then here, you 
dolt, what's your name ? " (addressing Corvinus, who was 
attending his father,) "go to the Nuuiidian court, and sum- 
mon Hyphax here directly." 

With a heavy heart Corvinus went on his errand. Hyphax 
had told his tale, and put his men in order of defence. 
Only one entrance at the end of the court was left open; 
and when the messenger had reached it, he durst not advance. 
Fifty men stood along each side of the space, with Hyphax 
and Jubala at the opposite end. Silent and immovable, 
with their dark chests and arms bare, each with bis arrow 
fixed, and pointed to the door, and the string ready drawn, 
they looked like an avenue of basalt statues, leading to an 
Egyptian temple. 

"H3'phax," said Corvinus, in a tremulous voice, "the 
emperor sends for you." 

" Tell his majesty, respectfully, from me," replied the 



African, "that my men have sworn, that no man passes 
that threshold, coming in, or going out, without leceiving, 
through his breast or his back, a hundred shafts into his 
heart ; until the emperor shall have sent us a token of for- 
giveness for every offence." 

Corvinus hastened back with this message, and the 
emperor received it with a laugh. They were men with 
whom he could not afford to quarrel; for he relied on 
them in battle, or insurrection, for picking out the leaders. 
"The cunning rascals!" he exclaimed. "There, take that 
trinket to Hyphax's black spouse." And he gave him 
Fabiola's splendid ring. He hastened back, delivered his 
gracious embassy, and threw the ring across. In an instant 
every bow dropt, and every string relaxed. Jubala, delighted, 
sprang forward and caught the ring. A heavy blow from her 
husband's fist felled her to the ground, and was greeted with 
a shout of applause. The savage seized the jewel; and the 
woman rose, to fear that she had only exchanged one slavery 
for a worse. 

Hyphax screened himself behind the imperial command. 
"If," he said, " you had allowed us to send an arrow through 
his head or heart, all would have been straight. As it was, 
we are not responsible." 

" At any rate, I will myself see my work done properly 
this time," said Maximian. " Two of you fellows with clubs 
come here." 

Two of his attendant executioners came from behind; 
Sebastian, scarcely able to stand, was also there; mild and 
intrepid. "Now, my men," said the barbarian, "I must 
not have any blood spilt on these stairs ; so you knock the 
life out of him with your cudgels; make clean work of it. 
Madam, what is your petition?" — stretching out his hand 
to Fabiola, whom he recognized, and so addressed more 
respectfully. She was horrified and disgusted, and almost 






fainting at the sight befoi'e her; so she said, "Sire, I fear 
it is too late ! " 

"Why too late?" looking at the paper. A flash came 
from his eye, as he said to her: "What! You knew that 
Sebastian was alive ? Are you a Christian ? " 

" JSTo, sire," she replied. Why did the denial almost 
dry np in her throat? She could not for her life have 
said she was any thing else. Ah ! Fabiola, thy day is not 
far off. 

"But, as you said just now," replied the emperor, more 
serene, returning her petition, "I fear it is too late; I think 
that blow must have been the ictus gratiosusJ^ * 

"I feel faint, sire," said she, respectfully; "may I 
retire?" 

"By all means. But, by the bye, I have to thank j^ou 
for the beautiful ring which you sent, and which I have 
given to Hyphax's wife" (lately her own slave!). "It will 
look more brilliant on a black hand than even on mine. 
Adieu ! " and he kissed his hand with a wicked smile, as 
if there were no martyr's body near to witness against him. 
He was right ; a heavy blow on the head had proved fatal ; 
and Sebastian was safe where he had so longed to be. He 
bore with him a double palm, and received a twofold crown. 
Tet still, an ignominious end before the world ; beaten to 
death without ceremony, while the emperor conversed. How 
much of martyrdom is in its disgrace ! Woe to us when we 
know that our sufferings earn us honor ! 

The tyrant, seeing his work completed, ordered that 
Sebastian at least should not be cast into the Tiber nor on 
a dunghill. " Put plenty of weights to his body," he 
added, "and throw it into the Cloaca, t to rot there, and 

* The coup de grace, the blow by which culprits were "put out of their paiu."' 
Breaking the legs of the crucified was considered an icius gratiosus. 

\ The great sewer of Kome. 



be the food of vermin. The Christians at least shall not 
have it." This was done; and the Saint's Acts inform us, 
that in the night he appeared to the holy matron Lucina, 
and directed her where to find his sacred remains. She 
obeyed his summons, and they were buried with honor, where 
now stands his basilica. 




Christ blessing a Child, from a picture in the Cemetery of the Latin Way. 



fe U U 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 
THE CRITICAL DAY: ITS FIRST PART. 

^JIJ^HERE are critical days in the life of man and of nian- 
^W)!^ kind. Not merely the days of Marathon, of Cannge, 
^£^ or of Lepanto, in which a different result might 
have influenced the social or political fate of man- 
kind. But it is probable that Columbus could look back 
upon not only the day, but the precise hour, the decision of 
which secured to the world all that he taught and gave it, 
and to himself the singular place which he holds among its 
worthies. And each of us, little and insignificant as he may be, 
has had his critical day ; his day of choice, which has decided 
his fate through life ; his day of Providence, which altered his 
position or his relations to others ; his day of grace, when the 
spiritual conquered the material. In whatever way it has 
been, every soul, like Jerusalem,* has had its day. 

And so with Fabiola, has not all been working up towards 
a crisis ? Emperor and slave, father and guest, the good and 
the wicked. Christian and heathen, rich and poor ; then life 
and death, joy and sorrow, learning and simplicity, silence 
and conversation, have they not all come as agents, pulling at 
her mind in oi^posite ways, yet all directing her noble and 
generous, though haughty and impetuous, soul one way, as 
the breeze and the rudder struggle against one another, only 
to determine the ship's single path? By what shall the reso- 
lution of these contending forces be determined ? That rests 

* "If thou hadst kuown, and in this thy day," etc. St. Luke, xix. 42. 



not with man ; wisdom, not pMlosopliy, can decide. We have 
been engaged with events commemorated on the 20th of Jan- 
uary ; let the reader look, and see what comes on the follow- 
ing day in his calendar, and he will agree it must be an 
important day in our little narrative. 

From the audience Fabiola retired to the apartments of 
Irene, where she found nothing but desolation and sorrow. 
She sympathized fully with the grief around her, but she saw 
and felt that there was a difference between her affliction and 
theirs. There was a buoyancy about them ; there was almost 
an exultation breaking out through their distress; their 
clouds were sun-ht and brightened at times. Hers was a 
dead and sullen, a dull and heavy gloom, as if she had sus- 
tained a hopeless loss. Her search after Christianity, as 
associated with anything amiable or intelligent, seemed at an 
end. Her desired teacher, or informant, was gone. When 
the crowd had moved away from the palace, she took affec- 
tionate leave of the widow and her daughters ; but, some way 
or other, she could not like the heathen one as she loved her 

sister. 

She sat alone at home, and tried to read ; she took up 
volume after volume of favorite works on Death, on Fortitude, 
on Friendship, on Virtue; and every one of them seemed 
insipid, unsound, and insincere. She plunged into a deeper 
and a deeper melancholy, which lasted till towards evening, 
when she was disturbed by a letter being put into her hand. 
The Greek slave, Graja, who brought it in, retired to the 
other end of the room, alarmed and perplexed by what she 
witnessed. For her mistress had scarcely glanced over the 
note, than she leaped up wildly from her seat, threw her hair 
into disorder with her hands, which she pressed, as in agony, 
on her temples, stood thus for a moment, looking up with an 
unnatural stare in her eyes, and then sank heavily down 
again on her chair with a deep groan. Thus she remained 



for some minutes, holding the letter in both her hands, with 
her arms relaxed, apparently unconscious. 

"Who brought this letter?" she then asked, quite col- 
lected, 

"A soldier, madam," answered the maid. 

" Ask him to come here." 

While her errand was being delivered, she composed her- 
self, and gathered up her hair. As soon as the soldier 
appeared she held this brief dialogue : 

" Whence do you come ? " 

" I am on guard at the Tullian prison." 

" Who gave you the letter? " 

" The Lady Agnes herself." 

" On what cause is the poor child there ? " 

" On the accusation of a man named Fulvius, for being a 
Christian." 

" For nothing else ? " 

" For nothing, I am sure." 

" Then we shall soon set that matter right. I can give 
witness to the contrary. Tell her I will come presently ; and 
take this for your trouble." 

The soldier retired, and Fabiola was left alone. When 
there was something to do her mind was at once energetic 
and concentrated, though afterwards the tenderness of woman- 
hood might display itself the more painfully. She wrapped 
herself close up, proceeded alone to the prison, and was at 
once conducted to the separate cell, which Agnes had obtained 
in consideration of her rank, backed by her parents' handsome 
largitions. 

"What is the meaning of this, Agnes?" eagerly inquired 
Fabiola, after a warm embrace. 

" I was arrested a few hours ago, and brought hither." 

"And is Fulvius fool enough, as well as scoundrel, to 
trump up an accusation against you, which five minutes will 



confute? I will go to TertuUus myself, and contradict his 
absurd charge at once." 

" What charge, dearest ? " 

"Why, that you are a Christian." 

" And so I am, thank God ! " replied Agnes, making on 
herself the sign of the cross. 

The announcement did not strike Fabiola like a thunder- 
bolt, nor rouse her, nor stagger her, nor perplex her. Sebas- 
tian's death had taken all edge or heaviness from it. She 
had found that faith existing in what she had considered the 
type of every manly virtue ; she was not surprised to find it 
in her, whom she had loved as the very model of womanly 
perfection. The simple grandeur of that child's excellence, 
her guileless innocence, and unexcepting kindness, she had 
almost worshipped. It made Fabiola' s difficulties less, it 
brought her problem nearer to a solution, to find two such 
peerless beings to be not mere chance-grown plants, but 
springing from the same seed. She bowed her head in a kind 
of reverence for the child, and asked her, " How long have you 
been so? " 

" All my life, dear Fabiola ; I sucked the faith, as we say, 
with my mother's milk." 

" And why did you conceal it from me ? " 

"Because I saw your violent prejudices against us; how 
you abhorred us as practisers of the most ridiculous supersti- 
tions, as perpetrators of the most odious abominations. I per- 
ceived how you contemned us as unintellectual, uneducated, 
unphilosophical, and unreasonable. You would not hear a 
word about us ; and the only object of hatred to your generous 
mind was the Christian name." 

"True, dearest Agnes; yet I think that had I known that 
you, or Sebastian, was a Christian, I could not have hated it. 
I could have loved any thing in you." 

" You think so now, Fabiola ; but you know not the force 



of universal prejudice, the weight of falsehood daily repeated. 
How many noble minds, fine intellects, and loving hearts 
have they enslaved, and induced to believe us to be all 
that we are not, something even worse than the worst of 
others ! " 

" Well, Agnes, it is selfish in me to argue thus with you 
in your present position. You will of course compel Fulvius 
to 2irove that you are a Christian." 

" Oh, no ! dear Fabiola ; I have already confessed it, and 
intend to do so again publicly in the morning." 

"In the morning! — what, to-morrow?" asked Fabiola, 
shocked at the idea of any thing so immediate. 

" Yes, to-morrow. To prevent any clamor or disturbance 
about me (though I suspect few people will care much), I am 
to be interrogated early, and summary proceedings will be 
taken. Is not that good news, dear? " asked Agnes eagerly, 
seizing her cousin's hands. And then putting on one of her 
ecstatic looks, she exclaimed, "Behold, what I have long 
coveted, I already see; what I have hoped for, I hold safe; 
to Him alone I feel already associated in heaven, whom here 
on earth I have loved with all devotedness.* Oh ! is He not 
beautiful, Fabiola, lovelier far than the angels who surround 
Him ! How sweet His smile ! how mild His eye ! how bland 
the whole expression of His face ! And that sweetest and 
most gracious Lady, who ever accompanies Him, our Queen 
and Mistress, who loves Him alone, how winningly doth she 
beckon me forward to join her train! I come! I come! — 
They are departed, Fabiola; but they return early for me 
to-morrow ; early, mind, and we part no more." 

Fabiola felt her own heart swell and heave, as if a new 
element were entering in. She knew not what it was, but it 
seemed something better than a mere human emotion. She 

* "Ecce quod concupivi jam video, quod speravi jam teneo; ipsi sum juncta 
in coelis quem in terris posita tota devotione dilexi." Office of St. Agnes. 



had not yet heard the name of Grace. Agnes, however, saw 
the favorable change in her spirit, and inwardly thanked God 
for it. She begged her cousin to return before dawn to her, 
for their final farewell. 

At this same time a consultation was being held at the 
house of the prefect, between that worthy functionary and his 
worthier son. The reader had better listen to it, to learn its 
purport. 

"Certainly," said the magistrate, "if the old sorceress 
was right in one thing, she ought to be in the other. I will 
answer, from experience, how powerful is wealth in conquering 
any resistance." 

"And you will allow, too," rejoined Corvinus, "from the 
enumeration we have made, that among the competitors for 
Fabiola's hand, there has not been one who could not justly 
be rather called an aspirant after her fortune." 

" Yourself included, my dear Corvinus." 

"Yes, so far: but not if I succeed in offering her, with 
myself, the lady Agnes' s great wealth." 

"And in a manner too, methinks, that will more easily 
gain upon what I hear of her generous and lofty disposition. 
Giving her that wealth independent of conditions, and then 
offering yourself to her, will put her under one of two obliga- 
tions, either to accept you as her husband, or throw you back 
the fortune." 

"Admirable, father! I never saw the second alternative 
before. Do you think there is no possibility of securing it 
except through her? " 

"None whatever. Fulvius, of course, will apply for his 
share ; and the probability is, that the emperor will declare 
he intends to take it all for himself. For he hates Fulvius. 
But if I pi-opose a more popular and palpably reasonable plan, 
of giving the property to the nearest relation, who worships 
the gods— this Fabiola does, don't she ? " 



w 



" Certainly, father." 

"I think he will embrace it: while I am sure there is no 
chance of his making a free gift to me. The proposal from a 
judge would enrage him." 

"Then how will you manage it, father? " 

"I will have an imperial rescript prepared during the 
night, ready for signature; and I will proceed immediately 
after the execution to the palace, magnify the unpopularity 
which is sure to follow it, lay it all on Fulvius, and show the 
emperor how his granting the property to the next in the set- 
tlement of it, will redound greatly to his credit and glory. He 
is as vain as he is cruel and rapacious ; and one vice must be 
made to fight another." 

" Nothing could be better, my dear father; I shall retire 
to rest with an easy mind. To-morrow will be the critical 
day of my life. All my future depends upon whether I am 
accepted or rejected." 

"I only wdsh," added Tertullus, rising, "that I could have 
seen this peerless lady, and sounded the depths of her phil- 
osophy, before your final bargain was struck." 

"Fear not, father: she is well worthy of being your 
daughter-in-law. Yes, to-morrow is indeed the turning-point 
of my fortunes." 

Even Corvinus can have his critical day. Why not 
Fabiola ? 

While this domestic interview was going on, a conference 
was taking place between Fulvius and his amiable uncle. 
The latter, entering late, found his nephew sitting sullen and 
alone in the house, and thus accosted him : 

"Well, Fulvius, is she secured?" 

"She is, uncle, as fast as bars and walls can make her; 
but her spirit is free and independent as evei'." 

" Never mind that : sharp steel makes short work of spirit. 
Is her fate certain? and are its consequences sure?" 



dir 



w 



" Why, if nothing else happens, the first is safe ; the 
second have still to encounter imperial caprice. But I own 
I feel pain and remorse at sacrificing so young a life, and for 
an insecure result." 

" Come, Fulvius," said the old man sternly, looking as 
cold as a grey rock in the morning mist ; "no softness, 
I hope, in this matter. Do you remember what day is 
to-morrow ? " 

" Yes, the twelfth before the calends of February." * 

" The critical day always for you. It was on this day that 
to gain another's wealth, you committed " 

"Peace, peace!" interrupted Fulvius in agony. "Why 
will you always renund me of every thing I most wish to 
forget? " 

" Because of this : you wish to forget yourself, and that 
must not be. I must take from you every pretence to be 
guided by conscience, virtue, or even honor. It is folly to 
affect compassion for any one's life, who stands in the way of 
your fortune, after what you did to /?er." 

Fulvius bit his lip in silent rage, and covered his crimson 
face with his hands. Eurotas roused him by saying : " Well, 
then, to-morrow is another, and probably a final critical day 
for you. Let us calmly weigh its prospects. You will go to 
the emperor, and ask for your rightful share in the confiscated 
property. Suppose it is granted?" 

" I will sell it as quick as possible, pay my debts, and 
retire to some country where my name has never been heard." 

" Suppose your claims are rejected? " 

"Impossible, impossible!" exclaimed Fulvius, racked by 
the very idea; "it is my right, hardly earned. It cannot be 
denied me." 

" Quietly, my young friend ; let us discuss the matter 
coolly. Kemember our proverb: 'From the stirrup to the 

* Jan. 31. 



ffi 



saddle there has been many a fall.' Suppose only that your 
rights are refused you." 

" Then I am a ruined man. I have no other prospect before 
me, of retrieving my fortunes here. Still I must fly hence." 

" Good : and what do you owe at Janus' s arch ? " * 

"A good couple of hundred sestertia,t between principal 
and compound interest at fifty per cent, to that unconscionable 
Jew Ephraim." 

" On what security ? " 

" On my sure expectation of this lady's estates." 

"And if you are disappointed, do you think he Avill let 
you fly?" 

"Not if he knows it, most assuredly. But we must be 
prepared from this moment for any emergency ; and that with 
the utmost secrecy." 

"Leave that to me, Fulvius; you see how eventful the 
issue of to-morrow may be to you, or rather of to-day ; for 
morning is approaching. Life or death to you hang upon it ; 
it is the great day of your existence. Courage then, or rather 
an inflexible determination, steel you to work out its destiny! " 

* In or near the forum stood seyeral arches dedicated to Janus, and called 
simply by his name, near which usurers or money-lenders kept their posts, 
t 1600?. 




A Monogram of Cbrist, found in the Catacombs. 






mi 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE SAME DAY: ITS SECOND PART. 

HE day is not yet dawning, and neverthe- 
less we speak of having reached its second 
part. How may this be? Gentle reader, 
have we not led you to its first vespers, 
divided as they are between Sebastian of 
yesterday, and Agnes of to-day? Have 
not the two sung them together, without 
jealousy, and with fraternal impartiality, 
the one from the heaven which he as- 
cended in the morning, the other from 
the dungeon into which she descended in the evening? 
Glorious Church of Christ! great in the unclashing com- 
bination of thy unity, stretching from heaven to beneath 
the earth, wherever exists a prison-house of the just. 
From his loddngs Fulvius went out into the night-air, 
which was crisp^and sharp, to cool his blood, and still his 
throbbing brows. He wandered about, almost without any 
purpose ; but found himself imperceptibly drawing nearer and 
nearer to the TuUian prison. As he was literally without 
affection, what could be his attraction thither? It was a 
strangely compounded feeling, made up of as bitter ingredients 
as ever filled the poisoner's cup. There was gnawing remorse; 
there was baffled pride ; there was goading avarice ; there was 
humbling shame ; there was a terrible sense of the approach- 
ing consummation of his villany. It was true, he had been 




^S 



w 



rejected, scorned, baifled by a mere child, while her fortune 
was necessary for his rescue from beggary and death, — so at 
least he reasoned ; yet he would still rather have her hand 
than her head. Her murder appeared revoltingly atrocious to 
him, unless absolutely inevitable. So he would give her 
another chance. 

He was now at the prison gate, of which he possessed the 
watchword. He pronounced it, entered, and, at his desire, 
was conducted to his victim's cell. She did not flutter, nor 
run into a corner, like a bird into whose cage the hawk has 
found entrance ; calm and intrepid, she stood before him. 

" Respect me here, Fulvius, at least," she gently said ; "I 
have but a few hours to live : let them be spent in peace." 

"Madam," he replied, "I have come to lengthen them, 
if 3^ou please, to years; and, instead of peace, I offer hap- 
piness." 

" Surely, sir, if I understand you, the time is past for this 
sad vanity. Thus to address one whom you have delivered 
over to death, is at best a mockery." 

" It is not so, gentle lady ; your fate is in your own hands ; 
only your own obstinacy will give you over to death. I have 
come to renew, once more, my offer, and with it that of life. 
It is your last chance." 

" Have I not before told you that I am a Christian ; and 
that I would forfeit a thousand lives rather than betray my 
faith?" 

" But now I ask you no longer to do this. The gates of 
the prison are yet open to me. Fly with me ; and, in spite 
of the imperial decrees, you shall be a Christian, and yet 
live." 

"Then have I not clearly told you that I am already 
espoused to my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and that to 
Him alone I keep eternal faith ? " 

"Folly and madness! Persevere in it till to-morrow, and 



that may be awarded to you which you fear more than death, 
and which will drive this illusion forever from your mind." 

" I fear nothing for Christ. For know, that I have an 
angel ever guarding me, who will not suffer his Master's 
handmaid to suffer scorn.* But now, cease this unworthy 
importunity, and leave me the last privilege of the condemned 
— solitude." 

Fulviiis had been gradually losing patience, and could no 
longer restrain his passion. Eejected again, baffled once more 
by a child, this time Avith the sword hanging over her neck ! 
A flame irrepressible broke out from the smouldering heat 
within him ; and, in an instant, the venomous ingredients 
that we have described as mingled in his heart, were distilled 
into one black, solitary drop, — hatred. With flashing look, 
and furious gesture, he broke forth : 

" Wretched woman, I give thee one more opportunity of 
rescuing thyself from destruction. Which wilt thou have, life 
with me, or death ? " 

" Death even I will choose for her, rather than life with 
a monster like thee ! " exclaimed a voice just within the 
door. 

" She shall have it," he rejoined, clenching his fist, and 
darting a mad look at the new speaker; "and thou too, if 
again thou darest to fling thy baneful shadow across my 
path." 

Fabiola was alone for the last time with Agnes. She had 
been for some minutes unobserved watching the contest, 
between what would have appeared to her, had she been a 
Christian, an angel of light and a spirit of darkness; and 
truly Agnes looked like the first, if human creature ever did. 
In preparation for her coming festival of full espousals to the 
Lamb, when she should sign her contract of everlasting love, 

* " Mecum enim habeo custodem corporis mei, Angelum Domiui." Tlie Bre- 
viary. 

475 



^ 



as He had done, in blood, she had thrown over the dark gar- 
ments of her mourning a white and spotless bridal robe. In 
the midst of that dark prison, lighted by a solitary lamp, she 
looked radiant and almost dazzling; while her tempter, 
wrapped up in his dark cloak, crouching down to rush out of 
the low door of the dungeon, looked like a black and van- 
quished demon, plunging into an abyss beneath. 

Then Fabiola looked into her countenance, and thought 
she had never seen it half so sweet. No trace of anger, of 
fear, of flurry, or agitation was there ; no paleness, no flush, 
no alternations of hectic excitement and pallid depression. 
Her eyes beamed with more than their usual mild intelli- 
gence ; her smile was as placid and cheerful as it ever was, 
when they discoursed together. Then there was a noble air 
about her, a greatness of look and manner, which Fabiola 
would have compared to that mien and stateliness, and that 
ambrosial atmosphere by which, in poetical mythology, a 
being of a higher sphere was recognized on earth.* It was 
not inspiration, for it was passionless ; but it was such 
expression and manner, as her highest conceptions of virtue 
and intellect, combined in the soul, might be supposed to 
stamp upon the outward form. Hence her feelings passed 
beyond love into a higher range; they were more akin to 
reverence. 

Agnes took one of her hands in each of' her own, crossed 
them upon her own calm bosom, and looking into her face 
with a gaze of blandest earnestness, said : 

"Fabiola, I have one dying request to make you. You 
have never refused me any : I am sure you will not this." 

" Speak not thus to me, dearest Agnes ; you must not 
request; you command me now." 

" Then pi'omise me, that you will immediately apply your 
mind to master the doctrines of Christianity. I know you 

* " Incessu patuit Dea, 



will embrace them; and then you will no longer be to me 
what you are now." 

"And what is that?" 

"Dark, dark, dearest Fabiola. When I look upon you 
thus, I see in you a noble intellect, a generous disposition, an 
affectionate heart, a cultivated mind, a tine moral feeling, and 
a virtuous life. What can be desired more in woman ? and 
yet over all these splendid gifts theie hangs a cloud, to my 
eyes, of gloomy shadow, the shade of death. Drive it away, 
and all will be lightsome and bright." 

" I feel it, dear Agnes, — I feel it. Standing before you, I 
seem to be as a black spot compared to your brightness. 
And how, embracing Christianity, shall I become light like 
you?" 

"You must pass, Fabiola, through the torrent that sun- 
ders us" (Fabiola started, recollecting her dream) . "Waters 
of refreshment shall flow over your body, and oil of gladness 
shall embalm your flesh ; and the soul shall be washed clean 
as driven snow, and the heart be softened as the babe's. 
From that bath you will come forth a new creature, born 
again to a new and immortal life." 

" And shall I lose all that you have but just now prized in 
me? " asked Fabiola, somewhat downcast. 

"As the gardener," answered the martyr, "selects some 
hardy and robust, but unprofitable plant, and on it engrafts 
but a small shoot of one that is sweet and tender, and the 
flowers and fruits of this belong to the first, and yet deprive 
it of no grace, no grandeur, no strength that it had before, so 
will the new life you shall receive ennoble, elevate, and sanc- 
tify (you can scarcely understand this word), the valuable 
gifts of nature and education which you already possess. 
What a glorious being Christianity will make you, Fabiola! " 

"What a new world you are leading me to, dear Agnes! 
Oh, that you were not leaving me outside its very threshold ! " 









pn ^ 



" Haik ! " exclaimed Agnes, in an ecstasy of joy. " They 
come, they come ! You hear the measured tramp of the sol- 
diers in the gallery. They are the bridesmen coming to sum- 
mon me. But I see on high the white-robed bridesmaids 
borne on the bright clouds of morning, and beckoning me for- 
ward. Yes, my lamp is trimmed, and I go forth to meet the 
Bi'idegroom. Farewell, Fabiola; weep not for me. Oh, that 
I could make you feel, as I do, the happiness of dying for 
Christ ! And now I will speak a word to you which I never 
have addressed to you before, — God bless you ! " And she 
made the sign of the Cross on Fabiola's forehead. An em- 
brace, convulsive on Fabiola's part, calm and tender on 
Agnes's, was their last earthly greeting. The one hastened 
home, filled with a new and generous purpose; the other 
resigned herself to the shame-stricken guard. 

Over the first part of the martyr's trials we cast a veil of 
silence, though ancient Fathers, and the Church in her oflices, 
dwell upon it, as doubling her crown.* Suffice it to say, that 
her angel protected her from harm ; t and that the purity of 
her presence converted a den of infamy into a holy and lovely 
sanctuary.! It was still early in the morning when she stood 
again before the tribunal of the pi'efect, in the Eoman Forum ; 
unchanged and unscathed, without a blush upon her smiling 
countenance, or a pang of sorrow in her innocent heart. Only 
her unshorn hair, the symbol of virginity, which had been let 

* " Duplex corona est praestita martyri." Prudentius. 

f "Ingressa Agnes turpitudinis locum, Angelum Domini prasparatum inve- 
nit." Tlie Breviary. 

X The Church of St. Agnes in the Piazza Narona, one of the most beautiful 
in Rome. 

"Cui posse soli Cunctipotens dedit 
Castum Tel ipsum reddere fornicem 

:}: ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Nil non pudicum est, quod pia visere 
Dignaris, almo vel pede tangere." 

Prudentius. 






loose, flowed down, in golden waves, upon her snow-white 
dress.* 

It was a lovely morning. Many will remember it to have 
been a beautiful day on its anniversary, as they have walked 
out of the Nomentan gate, now the Porta Pia, towards the 
church which bears our virgin-martyr's name, to see blessed 
upon her altar the two lambs, from whose wool are made the 
palliums sent by the Pope to the archbishops of his com- 
munion. Already the almond-trees are hoary, not with frost, 
but with blossoms; the earth is being loosened round the 
vines, and spring seems latent in the swelling buds, which 
are watching for the signal from the southern breeze, to burst 
and expand, t The atmosphere, rising into a cloudless sky, 
has just that temperature that one loves, of a sun, already 
vigorous, not heating, but softening, the slightly frosty air. 
Such we have frequently experienced St. Agnes's day, together 
with joyful thousands, hastening to her shrine. 

The judge was sitting in the open Forum, and a sufficient 
crowd formed a circle round the charmed space, which few, 
save Christians, loved to enter. Among the spectators were 
two whose appearance attracted general attention ; they stood 
opposite each other, at the ends of the semicircle formed by 
the multitude. One was a youth, enveloped in his toga, with 
a slouching hat over his eyes, so that his features could not 
be distinguished. The other was a lady of aristocratic uiien, 
tall and erect, such as one does not expect to meet on such an 
occasion. Wrapped close about her, and so ample as to veil 
her from head to foot, like the beautiful ancient statue, known 
among artists by the name of Modesty, t she had a scarf or 
mantle of Indian workmanship, woven in richest pattern of 

* " Non intorto crine caput comptum." Her head not dressed with braided 
hair. Sf. Ambrose, lib. i. de Virgin, c. 3. See Prndentius's description of St. 
Eulalia, T^epi, aTEcp. hymn. iii. 31. 

f '•' Solvitur acris hyems, grata vice veris et Pavoni." Horace. 

I Pudicitia. 



crimson, purple, and gold, a garment truly imperial, and less 
suitable, than even female presence, to this place of doom 
and blood. A slave, or servant, of superior class attended her, 
carefully veiled also, like her mistress. The lady's mind 
seemed intent on one only object, as she stood immovable, 
leaning with her elbow on a marble post. 

Agnes was introduced by her guards into the open space, 
and stood intrepid, facing the tribunal. Her thoughts seemed 







Chaine for the Martyrs, after a picture found in 1841, in a crypt at Milan. 



to be far away ; and she took no notice even of those two who, 
till she appeared, had been objects of universal observation. 

" Why is she unfettered ? " asked the prefect angrily. 

" She does not need it : she walks so readily," answered 
Catulus ; " and she is so young." 

" But she is obstinate as the oldest. Put manacles on her 
hands at once." 

The executioner turned over a quantity of such prison 
ornaments, — to Christian eyes really such, — and at length 
selected a pair as light and small as he could find, and placed 
them round her wrists. Agnes playfully, and with a smile. 



n 




The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid 
him at once do his duty. 



shook her hands, and they fell, like St. Paul's viper, clatter- 
ing at her feet.* 

"They are the smallest we have, sir," said the softened 
executioner: "one so young ought to wear other bracelets." 

"Silence, man!" rejoined tlie exasperated judge, who, 
turning to the prisoner, said, in a blander tone : 

" Agnes, I pity thy youth, thy station, and the bad educa- 
tion thou hast received. I desire, if possible, to save thee. 
Think better while thou hast time. Renounce the false and 
pernicious maxims of Christianity, obey the imperial edicts, 
and sacrifice to the gods." 

"It is useless," she replied, " to tempt me longer. My 
resolution is unalterable. I despise thy false divinities, and 
can only love and serve the one living God. Eternal Ruler, 
open wide the heavenly gates, until lately closed to man. 
Blessed Christ, call to Thee the soul that cleaveth unto Thee : 
victim first to Thee by virginal consecration; now to Thy 
Father by martyrdom's immolation." t 

" I waste time, I see," said the impatient prefect, who saw 
symptoms of compassion rising in the multitude. " Secretary, 
write the sentence. We condemn Agnes, for contempt of the 
imperial edicts, to be punished by the sword." 

" On what road, and at what mile-stone, shall the judg- 
ment be executed? " I asked the headsman. 

" Let it be carried into effect at once," was the reply. 

Agnes raised for one moment her hands and eyes to 
heaven, then calmly knelt down. "With her own hands she 

* St. Ambrose, ubi supra. 

f "Sterne Eector, divide jamias, 

Coeli, obserratas terrigenis prius, 

Ac te sequentem, Christe, animam voca, 

Cum virginalem, turn Patris hostiam." 

Prudentins, rrepi arefp. 14. 
I This was the usual practice, to behead out of the gate, at the second, third, 
or fourth mile-stone ; but it is clear from Prudentius and other writers that St. 
Agnes suffered at the place of trial, of which we have other instances. 



crtt- 



drew forward her silken hair over her head, and exposed her 
neck to the blow.* A pause ensued, for the executioner was 
trembling with emotion, and could not wield his sword. t As 
the child knelt alone, in her white robe, with her head 
inclined, her arms modestly crossed upon her bosom, and her 
amber locks hanging almost to the ground, and veiling her 
features, she might not unaptly have been compared to some 
rare plant, of which the slender stalk, white as the lily, bent 
with the luxuriancy of its golden blossom. 

The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesita- 
tion, and bid him at once do his duty. The man passed the 
back of his rough left hand across his eyes, as he raised his 
sword. It was seen to flash for an instant in the air ; and 
the next moment, flower and stem were lying scarcely dis- 
placed on the ground. It might have been taken for the 
prostration of prayer, had not the white robe been in that 
minute dyed into a rich crimson — washed in the blood of the 
Lamb. 

The man on the judge's right hand had looked with 
unflinching eye upon the stroke, and his lip curled in a 
wicked triumph over the fallen. The lady opposite had 
turned away her head, till the murmur, that follows a sup- 
pressed breath in a crowd, told her all was over. She then 
boldly advanced forward, unwound from round her person her 
splendid brocaded mantle, and stretched it as a pall, over the 
mangled body. A burst of applause followed this graceful act 
of womanly feeling,! as the lady stood, now in the garb of 
deepest mourning, before the tribunal. 

" Sir," she said in a tone clear and distinct, but full of 
emotion, " grant me one petition. Let not the rude hands of 

* Prudentius. 
f St. Ambrose. 

I Prudentius mentions that a sudden fall of snow shrouded thus the body of 
St. Eulalia lying in the Forum. UU stip. 




The Christian Martyr. 
4S6 



your servants again touch and profane the hallowed remains 
of her, whom I have loved more than any thing on earth ; but 
let me bear them hence to the sepulchre of her fathers ; for 
she was noble as she was good." 

Tertullus was manifestly irritated, as he replied : " Ma- 
dam, whoever you may be, your request cannot be granted. 
Catulus, see that the body be cast, as usual, into the river, or 
burnt." 

"I entreat you, sir," the lady earnestly insisted, "by every 
claim which female virtue has upon you, by any tear which a 
mother has shed over you, by every soothing word which a 
sister has ever spoken to you, in illness or sorrow ; by every 
ministration of their gentle hands, I implore you to grant my 
humble prayer. And if, when you return home this evening, 
you will be met at the threshold by daughters, who will kiss 
your hand, though stained with the blood of one, whom you 
may feel proud if they resemble, be able to say to them, at 
least, that this slightest tribute to the maidenly delicacy 
which they prize has not been refused." 

Such common sympathy was manifested that Tertullus, 
anxious to check it, asked her sharply : 

"Pray, are you, too, a Christian?" 

She hesitated for one instant, then replied, " No, sir, I 
am not ; but I own that if anything could make me one, it 
would be what I have seen this day." 

" What do you mean ? " 

"Why, that to preserve the religion of the empire such 
beings as she whom you have slain " (her tears interrupted 
her for a moment) " should have to die; while monsters who 
disgrace the shape and name of man should have to live and 
flourish. Oh, sir, you know not what you have blotted out 
from earth this day! She was the purest, sweetest, holiest 
thing I ever knew upon it, the very flower of womanhood, 
though yet a child. And she might have lived yet, had she 



u u ®l Is.Lhb 



not scorned the proffered hand of a vile adventurer, who pur- 
sued her with his loathsome offers into the seclusion of her 
villa, into the sanctuary of her home, and even into the last 
retreat of her dungeon. For this she died, that she would not 
endow^ with her wealth, and ennoble by her alliance, that 
Asiatic spy." 

She pointed with calm scorn at Fulvius, who bounded for- 
ward, and exclaimed with fury : " She lies, foully and calum- 
niously, sir. Agnes openly confessed herself a Christian." 

"Bear with me, sir," replied the lady, with noble dignity, 
"while I convict him; and look on his face for proof of what 
I say. Didst thou not, Fulvius, early this morning, seek that 
gentle child in her cell, and deliberately tell her (for unseen, I 
heard you) that if she would but accept thy hand, not only 
wouldst thou save her life, but, despising the imperial com- 
mands, secure her still remaining a Christian? " 

Fulvius stood, pale as death : stood, as one does for a mo- 
ment who is shot through the heart, or struck by lightning. 
He looked like a man on whom sentence is going to be pro- 
nounced, — not of death, but of eternal pilloiy, as the judge 
addressed him, saying : 

" Fulvius, thy very look confirms this grievous charge. I 
could arraign thee on it, for thy head, at once. But take my 
counsel, begone hence forever. Flee, and hide thyself, after 
such villany, from the indignation of all just men, and from 
the vengeance of the gods. Show not thy face again here, nor 
in the Forum, nor in any public place of Rome. If this lady 
pleases, even now I will take her deposition against thee. 
Pray, madam," he asked most respectfully, " may I have the 
honor of knowing your name ? " 

" Fabiola," she replied. 

The judge was now all complacency, for he saw before him, 
he hoped, his future daughter-in-law. " I have often heard of 
you, madam," he said, " and of your high accomplishments 



and exalted virtues. You are, moreover, nearly allied to this 
victim of treachery, and have a right to claim her body. It is 
at your disposal." This speech was interrupted at its begin- 
ning by a loud hiss and yell that accompanied Fulvius's 
departure. He was pale with shame, terror, and rage. 

Fabiola gracefully thanked the prefect, and beckoned to 
Syra, who attended her. The servant again made a signal to 
some one else ; and presently four slaves appeared bearing a 
lady's litter. Fabiola would allow no one but herself and 




A Blood Urn, used as a mark for a martyr's grave. 



Syra to raise the relics from the ground, place them on the 
litter, and cover them with their precious pall. "Bear this 
treasure to its own home," she said, and followed as mourner 
with her maid. A little girl, all in tears, timidly asked if she 
might join them. 

" Who art thou ? " asked Fabiola. 

"I am poor Emerentiana, her foster-sister," replied the 
child ; and Fabiola led her kindly by the hand. 

The moment the body was removed, a crowd of Christians, 
children, men, and women, threw themselves forward, with 
sponges and linen cloths, to gather up the blood. In vain 






did the guards fall on them, with whips, cudgels, and even 
with sharper weapons, so that many mingled their own blood 
with that of the martyr. When a sovereign, at his corona- 
tion, or on first entering his capital, throws, according to 
ancient custom, handfuls of gold and silver coins among the 
crowd, he does not create a more eager competition for his 
scattered treasures, than there was among those primitive 
Christians, for what they valued more than gold or precious 
stones, the ruby drops which a martyr had poured from his 
heart for his Lord. But all respected the prior claim of one ; 
and here it was the deacon Eeparatus, who, at risk of life, was 
present, phial in hand, to gather the blood of Agnes' s testi- 
mony ; that it might be appended, as a faithful seal, to the 
record of martyrdom on her tomb. 




The Eesurrection of Lazame, from the Cemetery of St. Domitilla. 



CHAPTER XXX 



^ 




THE SAME DAY: ITS THIRD PART. 

f( ERTULLFS hastened at once to the pal- 
ace: fortunately, or unfortunately, for 
these candidates for martyrdom. There 
he met Corvinus, with the prepared 
rescript, elegantly engrossed in unical, 
that is, large capital letters. He had 
the privilege of immediate admission into 
the imperial presence ; and, as a matter 
of business, reported the death of Agnes, 
exaggerated the public feeling likely to 
be caused by it, attributed it all to the folly and mis- 
management of Fulvius, whose worst guilt he did not 
disclose for fear of having to try him, and thus bring- 
ing out what he was now doing ; depreciated the value of 
Agnes' s property, and ended by saying that it would be a 
gracious act of clemency, and one sure to counteract unpopu- 
lar feelings, to bestow it upon her relative, who by settlement 
was her next heir. He described Fabiola as a young lady of 
exraordinary intellect and wonderful learning, who was most 
zealously devoted to the worship of the gods, and daily offered 
sacrifice to the genius of the emperors. 

" I know her," said Maxim ian, laughing, as if at the recol- 
lection of something very droll. " Poor thing ! she sent me a 
splendid ring, and yesterday asked me for that wretched 
Sebastian's life, just as they had finished cudgelling him to 



M^ 



®trb 



r 



death." And he laughed immoderately, then continued: 
"Yes, yes, by all means; a little inheritance will console her, 
no doubt, for the loss of that fellow. Let a rescript be made 
out, and I will sign it." 

Tertullus produced the one prepared, saying he had fully 
relied on the emperor's magnanimous clemency; and the 
imperial barbarian put a signature to it which would have 
disgraced a schoolboy. The prefect at once consigned it to 
his son. 

Scarcely had he left the jjalace, when Fulvius entered. He 
had been home to pmt on a proper court attire, and remove 
from his features, by the bath and the perfumer's art, the 
traces of his morning's passion. He felt a keen presentiment 
that he should be disappointed. . Eurotas's cool discussion of 
the preceding evening had prepared him ; the cross of all his 
designs, and his multiplied disappointments that day, had 
strengthened this instinctive conviction. One woman, indeed, 
seemed born to meet and baffle him whichever way he turned ; 
but, " thank the gods," he thought, " she cannot be in my way 
here. She has this morning blasted my character for ever ; 
she cannot claim my rightful reward ; she has made me an 
outcast ; it is not in her power to make me a beggar." This 
seemed his only ground of hope. Despair, indeed, urged him 
forward ; and he determined to argue out his claims to the 
confiscated property of Agnes, with the only competitor he 
could fear, the rapacious emperor himself. He might as well 
risk his life over it, for if he failed, he was utterly ruined. 
After waiting some time, he entered the audience-hall, and 
advanced with the blandest smile that he could muster to the 
imperial feet. 

" What want you here ? " was his first greeting. 

"Sire," he replied, "I have come humbly to pray your 
royal justice, to order my being put into immediate possession 
of my share of the Lady Agnes' s property. She has been 



d-t^ 



convicted of being a Christian upon my accusation, and she 
has just suffered the merited penalty of all who disobey the 
imperial edicts." 

"That is all quite right; but we have heard how stupidly 
you mismanaged the whole business as usual, and have raised 
murmurings and discontent in the people against us. So, 
now, the sooner you quit our presence, palace, and city, the 
better for yourself. Do you understand ? We don't usually 
give such warnings twice." 

" I will obey instantly everj^ intimation of the supreme 
will. But I am almost destitute. Command what of 
right is mine to be delivered over to me, and I part imme- 
diately." 

"No more words," replied the tyrant, "but go at once. 
As to the property which you demand with so much pertinac- 
ity, you cannot have it. We have made over the Avhole of it, 
by an irrevocable rescript, to an excellent and deserving per- 
son, the Lady Fabiola." 

Fulvius did not speak another word; but kissed the 
emperor's hand and slowly i-etired. He looked a ruined, 
broken man. He was only heard to say, as he passed out of 
the gate : " Then, after all, she has made me a beggar too." 
When he reached home, Eurotas, who read his answer in his 
nephew's eye, was amazed at his calmness. 

" I see," he drily remarked, "it is all over." 

" Yes ; are your preparations made, Eurotas ? " 

" Nearly so. I have sold the jewels, furniture, and slaves, 
at some loss; but, with the trifle I had in hand, we have 
enough to take us safe to Asia. I have retained Stabio, as 
the most trusty of our servants ; he will carry our small trav- 
elling requisites on his horse. Two others are preparing for 
you and me. I have only one thing more to get for our jour- 
ney, and then I am ready to start." 

" Pray what is that ? " 



" The poison. I ordered it last night, but it will only be 
ready at noon." 

"What is that for?" asked Fulvius, with some alarm. 

"Surely jou know," rejoined the other, unmoved. "I am 
willing to make one more trial any where else ; but our bar- 
gain is clear ; my father's family must not end in beggary. It 
must be extinguished in honor." 

Fulvius bit his lip, and said, " Well, be it as you like, I am 
weary of life. Leave the house as soon as possible, for fear of 
Ephraim, and be with your horses at the third mile on the 
Latin gate soon after dusk. I will join you there. For I, too, 
have an important matter to transact before I start." 

"And what is that?" asked Eurotas, with a rather keen 
curiosity. 

" I cannot tell even you. But if I am not with you by 
two hours after sunset, give me up, and save yourself with- 
out me." 

Eurotas fixed upon him his cold dark eye, with one of 
those looks which ever read Fulvius through; to see if he 
could detect any lurking idea of escape from his gripe. But 
his look was cool and unusually open, and the old man asked 
no more. While this dialogue was going on, Fulvius had 
been divesting himself of his court garments, and attiring 
himself in a travelling suit. So completely did he evidently 
prepare himself for his journey, without necessity of returning 
home, that he even took his weapons with him ; besides his 
sword, securing in his girdle, but concealed under his cloak, 
one of those curved daggers, of highest temper and most fatal 
form, which were only known in the East. 

Eurotas fjroceeded at once to the JSTumidian quarters in 
the palace, and asked for Jubala ; who entered with two small 
flasks of different sizes, and was just going to give some 
explanations, when her husband, half-drunk, half-furious, was 
seen approaching. Eurotas had just time to conceal the flasks 






in his belt, and slii) a coin into her hand, when Hyphax came 
up. His wife had mentioned to him the offers which Eurotas 
had made to her before marriage, and had excited in his hot 
African blood a jealousy that amounted to hatred. The savage 
rudely thrust his wife out of the apartment, and would have 
picked a quarrel with the Syrian ; had not the latter, his pur- 
pose being accomplished, acted with forbearance, assured the 
archer-chief that he should never more see him, and retired. 

It is time, however, that we return to Fabiola. The reader 
is probably prepared to hear us say, that she returned home a 
Christian : and yet it was not so. For what as yet did she 
know of Christianity, to be said to profess it ? In Sebastian 
and Agnes she had indeed willingly admired the virtue, unself- 
ish, generous, and more than earthly, which now she was 
ready to attribute to that faith. She saw that it gave motives 
of actions, principles of life,- elevation of mind, courage of con- 
science, and determination of virtuous will, such as no other 
system of belief ever bestowed. And even if, as she now 
shrewdly suspected, and intended in calmer moments to 
ascertain, the sublime revelations of Syra, concerning an 
unseen sphere of virtue, and its all-seeing Kuler, came from 
the same source, to what did it all amount more than to a 
grand moral and intellectual system, partly practical, partly 
speculative, as all codes of jDhilosophic teaching were? This 
was a very different thing from Christianity. She had as yet 
heard nothing of its real and essential doctrines, its fathomless, 
yet accessible, depths of mystery ; the awful, vast, and heaven- 
high structure of faith, which the simplest soul may contain ; 
as a child's eye will take in the perfect reflection and counter- 
part of a mountain, though a giant cannot scale it. She had 
never heard of a God, One in Trinity; of the co-equal Son 
incarnate for man. She had never been told of the marvel- 
lous history, of Kedemption by God's sufferings and death. 
She had not heard of Nazareth, or Bethlehem, or Calvary. 



irrn 



How could she call herself a Christian, or be one, in ignorance 
of all this ? 

How many names had to become familiar and sweet to her 
which as yet were unknown, or barbarous — Mary, Joseph, 
Peter, Paul, and John ? Not to mention the sweetest of all, 
His, whose name is balm to the wounded heart, or as honey 
dropping from the broken honeycomb. And how much had 
she yet to learn about the provision for salvation on earth, in 
the Church, in grace, in sacraments, in prayer, in love, in 
charity to others ! What unexplored regions lay beyond the 
small tract which she had explored ! 

No ; Fabiola returned home, exhausted almost by the pre- 
ceding day and night, and the sad scenes of the morning, and 
retired to her own apartment, no longer perhaps even a phil- 
osopher, yet not a Christian. She desired all her servants to 
keej) away from the court which she occupied, that she 
might not be disturbed by the smallest noise ; and she for- 
bade any one to have access to her. There she sat in loneliness 
and silence, for several hours, too excited to obtain rest from 
slumber. She mourned long over Agnes, as a mother might 
over a child suddenly carried off. Yet, was there not a tinge 
of light upon the cloud that overshadowed her, more than 
when it hung over her father's bier? Did it not seem to her 
an insult to reason, an outrage to humanity, to think that she 
had perished ; that she had been permitted to walk forward in 
her bright robe, and with her smiling countenance, and with 
her joyous, simple heart, straight on — into nothing ; that she 
had been allured by conscience, and justice, and purity, and 
truth, on, on, till with arms outstretched to embrace them, she 
stepped over a precipice, beneath which yawned annihilation? 
ISTo. Agnes, she felt sure, was happy somehow, somewhere; 
or justice was a senseless word. 

" How strange," she further thought, " that every one 
whom I have known endowed with superior excellence, men 



like Sebastian, women like Agnes, should turn out to have 
belonged to the scorned race of Christians ! One only remains, 
and to-morrow I will interrogate her." 

When she turned from these, and looked round upon the 
heathen world, Fulvius, Tertullus, the Emperor, Calpurnius, — 
nay, she shuddered as she surprised herself on the point of 
mentioning her own father's name — it sickened her to see the 
contrast of baseness with nobleness, vice with virtue, stupidity 
with wisdom, and the sensual with the spiritual. Her mind 
was thus being shaped into a mould, which some form of prac- 
tical excellence must be found to fill, or it must be broken ; 
her soul was craving as a parched soil, which heaven unist 
send its waters to refresh, or it must become an eternal 
desert. 

Agnes, surely, well deserved the glory of gaining, by her 
death, her kinswoman's conversion ; but was there not one, 
more humble, who had established a prior claim ? One who 
had given up freedom, and offered life, for this unselfish 
gain ? 

While Fabiola was alone and desolate, she was disturbed 
by the entrance of a stranger, introduced under the ominous 
title of " A messenger from the emperor." The porter had at 
first denied him admittance ; but upon being assured that he 
bore an important embassy from the sovereign, he felt obliged 
to inquire from the steward what to do ; when he was informed 
that no one with such a claim could be refused entrance. 

Fabiola was amazed, and her displeasure was somewhat 
mitigated, by the ridiculous appearance of the person deputed 
in such a solemn character. It was Corvinus, who with 
clownish grace approached her, and in a studied speech, 
evidently got up very floridly, and intrusted to a bad memory, 
laid at her feet an imperial rescript, and his own sincere affec- 
tion, the Lady Agnes's estates, and his clumsy hand. Fabiola 
could not at all comprehend the connection between the two 



combined presents, and never imagined that the one was a 
bribe for the other. So she desired him to return her humble 
thanks to the emperor for his gracious act; adding, "Say 
that I am too ill to-day to present myself, and do him 
homage." 

" But these estates, you are aware, were forfeited and con- 
fiscated," he gasped out in great confusion, "and my father 
has obtained them for you." 

"That was unnecessary," said Fabiola, "for they were 
settled on me long ago, and became mine the moment " — she 
faltered, and after a strong effort at self-mastery, she con- 
tinued — " the moment they ceased to be another's ; they did 
not fall under confiscation." 

Corvinus was dumb-foundered: at last he stumbled into 
something, meant for an humble petition to be admitted as an 
aspirant after her hand, but understood by Fabiola to be a 
demand of recompense, for procuring or bringing so important 
a document. She assured him that every claim he might 
have on her should be fully and honorably considered at a 
more favorable moment ; but as she was exceedingly wearied 
and unwell, she must beg him to leave her at present. He 
did so quite elated, fancying that he had secured his prize. 

After he was gone she hardly looked at the parchment, 
which he had left open on a small table by her couch, but sat 
musing on the sorrowful scenes she had witnessed, till it 
wanted about an hour to sunset. Sometimes her reveries 
turned to one point, sometimes to another of the late events ; 
and, at last, she was dwelling on her being confronted with 
Fulvius, that morning, in the Forum. Her memory vividly 
replaced the entire scene before her, and her mind gradually 
worked itself into a state of painful excitement, which she at 
length checked by saying aloud to herself: "Thank heaven! 
I shall never behold that villain's face again." 

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when she 



TO 



shaded her eyes with her hand, as she raised herself up on 
her couch, and looked towards the door. Was it her over- 
heated fancy which beguiled her, or did her wakeful eyes 
show her a reality ? Her ears decided the question, by these 
words which they heard : 

" Pray, madam, who is the man whom you honor by that 
gracious speech ? " 

" You, Fulvius," she said, rising with dignity. " A further 
intruder still ; not only into the house, the villa, and the dun- 
geon, but into the most secret apartments of a lady's resi- 
dence ; and what is worse, into the house of sorrow of one 
whom you have bereaved. Begone at once, or I will have you 
ignominiously expelled hence." 

"Sit down and compose yourself, lady," rejoined the 
intruder; "this is my last visit to you; but we have a reck- 
oning to make together of some weight. As to crying out, or 
bringing in help, you need not trouble yourself; your orders 
to your servants to keep aloof, have been too well obeyed. 
There is no one within call." 

It was true. Fulvius found the way prepared unwittingly 
for him by Corvinus; for upon presenting himself at the door 
the porter, who had seen him twice dine at the house, told 
him of the strict orders given, and assured him that he could 
not be admitted unless he came from the emperor, for such 
were his instructions. That, Fulvius said, was exactly his 
case ; and the porter, wondering that so many imperial mes- 
sengers should come in one day, let him pass. He begged 
that the door might be left unfastened, in case the porter 
should not be at his post when he retired ; for he was in a 
hurry, and should not like to disturb the house in such a state 
of grief. He added that he required no guide, for he knew 
the way to Fabiola's apartment. 

Fulvius seated himself opposite to the lady, and con- 
tinued : 



"You ought not to be offended, madam, with my unex- 
pectedly coming upon you, and overhearing your amiable 
soliloquies about myself; it is a lesson I learned from your- 
self in the TuUian prison. But I must begin my scores from 
an earlier date. When, for the first time, I was invited by 
your worthy father to his table, I met one whose looks and 
words at once gained my affections, — I need not now mention 
her name, — and whose heart, with instinctive sympathy, 
returned them." 

" Insolent man ! " Fabiola exclaimed, " to allude to such a 
topic here ; it is false that any such affection ever existed on 
either side." 

"As to the Lady Agnes," resumed Fulvius, "I have the 
best authority, that of your lamented parent, who more than 
once encouraged me to persevere in my suit, by assuring me 
that his cousin had confided to him her reciprocating love." 

Fabiola was mortified ; for she now remembered that this 
was too true, from the hints which Fabius had given her, of 
his stupid misunderstanding. 

" I know well, that my dear father was under a delusion 
upon this subject ; but I, from whom that dear child con- 
cealed nothing " 

"Except her religion," interrupted Fulvius, with bitter 
irony. 

" Peace ! " Fabiola went on ; " that word sounds like a 
blasphemy on your lips — I knew that you were but an object 
of loathing and abhorrence to her." 

"Yes, after you had made me such. From that hour of 
our first meeting you became my bitter and unrelenting foe, 
in conspiracy with that treacherous ofiicer, who has received 
his reward, and whom you had destined for the place I 
courted. Repress your indignation, lady, for I will be heard 
out, — you undermined my character, you poisoned her feel- 
ings, and you turned my love into necessary enmity." 






" Your love ! " now broke in the indignant lady ; " even if 
all that you have said were not basely false, what love could 
you have for her ? How could you appreciate her artless sim- 
plicity, her genuine honesty, her rare understanding, her 
candid innocence, any more than the wolf can value the 
lamb's gentleness, or the vulture the dove's mildness? No, 
it was her wealth, her family connection, her nobility, that 
you grasped at, and nothing more ; I read it in the very flash 
of your eye, when first it fixed itself, as a basilisk's, upon 
her." 

"It is false! " he rejoined; "had I obtained my request, 
had I been thus worthily mated, I should have been found 
equal to my position, domestic, contented, and affectionate; 
as worthy of possessing her as " 

"As any one can be," struck in Fabiola, "who, in offering 
his hand, expresses himself equally ready, in three hours, to 
espouse or to murder the object of his affection. And she 
prefers the latter, and he keeps his word. Begone from my 
presence ; you taint the very atmosphere in which you 
move." 

" I will leave when I have accomplished my task, and you 
will have little reason to rejoice when I do. Ton have then 
purposely, and unprovoked, blighted and destroyed in me 
every honorable purpose of life, withered my only hope, cut 
me off from rank, society, respectable ease, and domestic 
happiness. 

" That was not enough. After acting in that character, 
with which you summed up my condemnation, of a spy, and 
listened to my conversation, you this morning threw off all 
sense of female propriety, and stood forward prominently in the 
Forum, to complete in public what you had begun in private, 
excite against me the supreme tribunal, and through it the 
emperor, and arouse an unjust popular outcry and vengeance; 
such as, but for a feeling stronger than fear, which brings me 



hither, would make me now skulk, like a hunted wolf, till I 
could steal out of the nearest gate." 

" And, Fulvius, I tell you," interposed Fabiola, " that the 
moment you cross its threshold, the average of virtue will be 
raised in this wicked city. Again I bid you depart from my 
house, at least ; or at any rate I will withdraw from this oifen- 
sive intrusion." 

" We part not yet, lady," said Fulvius, whose countenance 
had been growing every moment more flushed, as his lips had 
been becoming more deadly pale. He rudely grasped her arm, 
and pushed her back to her seat; "and beware," he added, 
" how you attempt again either to escajDC or to bring aid ; 
your first cry will be your last, cost me what it may. 

"Ton have made me, then, an outcast, not only from 
society but from Kome, an exile, a houseless wanderer on a 
friendless earth ; was not that enough to satisfy your venge- 
ance? No: you must needs rob me of my gold, of my 
rightfully, though painfully earned wealth ; peace, reputation, 
my means of subsistence, all yo\i have stolen from me, a 
youthful stranger." 

" Wicked and insolent man ! " exclaimed now the indig- 
nant Roman lady, reckless of consequences, "you shall answer 
heavily for your temerity. Dare you, in my own house, call 
me a thief? " 

" I dare ; and I tell you this is your day of reckoning, and 
not mine. I have earned, even if by crime, it is nothing to 
you, my full share of your cousin's confiscated property. I 
have earned it hardly, by pangs and rendings of the heart and 
soul, by sleepless nights of struggles with fiends that have con- 
quered ; ay, and with one at home that is sterner than they ; 
by days and days of restless search for evidence, amidst the 
desolation of a proud, but degraded spirit. Have I not a 
right to enjoy it ? 

" Ay, call it what you will, call it my blood-money ; the 



more infamous it is, the more base in you to step in and 
snatch it from me. It is like a rich man tearing the carrion 
from the hound's jaws, after he has swollen his feet and rent 
his skin in hunting it down." 

"I will not seek for further epithets by which to call you; 
your mind is deluded by some vain dream," said Fabiola, with 
an earnestness not untinged with alarm. She felt she was in 
the presence of a madman, one in whom violent passion, car- 
ried off by an unchecked, deeply-moved fancy, was lashing 
itself up to that intensity of wicked excitement, which con- 
stitutes a moral frenzy, — when the very murderer thinks 
himself a virtuous avenger. "Fulvius," she continued, with 
studied calmness, and looking fully into his eyes, " I now 
entreat you to go. If you want money, you shall have it ; but 
go, in heaven's name go, before you destroy your reason by 
your anger." 

"What vain fancy do you mean? " asked Fulvius. 

"Why, that I should have ever dreamt about Agnes's 
wealth or property on such a day, or should have taken any 
advantage of her cruel death." 

"And yet it is so; I have it from the emperor's mouth 
that he has made it over to you. Will you pretend to make 
me believe, that this most generous and liberal prince ever 
parted with a penny unsolicited, ay, or unbribed ? " 

" Of this I know nothing. But I know, that I aa^ouM 
rather have died of want than petitioned for a farthing of such 
property ! " 

"Then would you make me rather believe, that in this 
city there is any one so disinterested as, undesired, to have 
petitioned for you? No, no, Lady Fabiola, all this is too 
incredible. But what is that?" And he pounced with 
eagerness on the imperial rescript, which had remained 
unlooked at, since Corvinus had left it. The sensation to 
him was like that of JEneas when he saw Pallas' s belt upon 



LI U ®l 



the body of Turnus. The fury, which seemed to have been 
subdued by his subtlety, as he had been reasoning to prove 
Fabiola guilty, flashed up anew at the sight of this fatal docu- 
ment. He eyed it for a minute, then broke out, gnashing his 
teeth with rage : 

" Now, madam, I convict you of baseness, rapacity, and 
unnatural cruelty, far beyond any thing you have dared to 
charge on me ! Look at this rescript, beautifully engrossed, 
with its golden letters and emblazoned margins ; and presume 
to say that it was prepared in the one hour that elapsed 
between your cousin's death and the emperor's telling me 
that he had signed it? Nor do you pretend to know the 
generous friend who procured you the gift. Bah ! while 
Agnes was in prison at latest ; while you were whining and 
moaning over her ; while you were reproaching me for cruelty 
and treachery towards her, — me, a stranger and alien to her ! 
you, the gentle lady, the virtuous philosopher, the loving, 
fondling kinswoman, you, my stern reprover, were coolly plot- 
ting to take advantage of my crime, for securing her property, 
and seeking out the elegant scribe, who should gild your 
covetousness with his pencil, and paint over your treason to 
your own flesh and blood, with his blushing minium.'" * 

" Cease, madman, cease ! " exclaimed Fabiola, endeavoring 
in vain to master his glaring eye. But he went on in still 
wilder tone : 

" And then, forsooth, when you have thus basely robbed 
me, you offer me money. You have out-plotted me, and you 
pity me ! You have made me a beggar, and then you offer 
me alms, — alms out of my own wages, the wages which even 
hell allows its fated victims while on earth ! " 

Fabiola rose again, but he seized her with a maniac's gripe, 
and this time did not let her go. He went on : 

" Now listen to the last words that I will speak, or they 

* Red paint. 



may be the last that you will heai'. Give back to me that 
unjustly obtained property; it is not fair that I should have 
the guilt, and you its reward. Transfer it by your sign 
manual to me as a free and loving gift, and I will depart. If 
not, you have signed your own doom." A stern and menacing 
glance accompanied these words. 

Fabiola's haughty self rose again erect within her; her 
Roman heart, unsubdued, stood tirm. Danger only made her 
fearless. She gathered her robe with matronly dignity around 
her, and replied : 

" Fulvius, listen to my words, though they should be the 
last that I may speak ; as certainly they shall be the last that 
you shall hear from me. 

" Surrender this property to you? I would give it willingly 
to the first leper that I might meet in the street, but to you 
never. Never shall you touch thing that belonged to that 
holy maiden, be it a gem or be it a straw ! That touch would 
be pollution. Take gold of mine, if it please you ; but any 
thing that ever belonged to her, from me no treasures can 
ransom. And one legacy I prize more than all her inherit- 
ance. You have now offered me two alternatives, as 
last night you did her, to yield to your demands, or die. 
Agnes taught me which to choose. Once again, I say, 
depart." 

"And leave you to possess what is mine? leave you to 
triumph over me, as one whom you have outwitted — you 
honored, and I disgraced — you rich, and I penniless — you 
happy, and I wretched? No, never! I cannot save myself 
from what you have made me ; but I can prevent your being 
what you have no right to be. For this I have come here ; 
this is my day of Nemesis.* Now die!" While he was 
speaking these reproaches, he was slowly pushing her back- 
wards with his left hand towards the couch from which she 

* Reyenffe. 



w 



had risen ; while his right was tremblingly feeling for some- 
thing in the folds of his bosom. 

As he finished his last word, he thrust her violently down 
upon the couch, and seized her by the hair. She made no 
resistance, she uttered no cry ; partly a fainting and sickening 
sensation came over her ; partly a noble feeling of self-respect 
checked any unseemly exhibition of fear, before a scornful 
enemy. Just as she closed her "eyes, she saw something like 
lightning above her ; she could not tell whether it was his 
glaring eye or flashing steel. 

In another moment she felt oppressed and suffocated, as 
if a great weight had fallen upon her ; and a hot stream was 
flowing over her bosom. 

A sweet voice full of earnestness sounded in her ears : 

" Cease, Orontius ; I am thy sister Miriam ! " 

Fulvius, in accents choked by passion, replied : 

" It is false ; give me up my prey ! " 

A few words more were faintly spoken in a tongue unknown 
to Fabiola ; when she felt her hair released, heard the dagger 
dashed to the ground, and Fulvius cry out bitterly, as he 
rushed out of the room : 

" Christ ! this is Thy Nemesis ! " 

Fabiola' s strength was returning; but she felt the weight 
upon her increase. She struggled, and released herself. 
Another body was lying in her place, apparently dead, and 
covered with blood. 

It was the faithful Syra, who had thrown herself between 
her mistress's life and her brother's dagger. 



d-o- 



CHAPTER XXXI 



DIONYSIUS. 



AIONYCIOY 

lATPOY 

nP€CBYT6P0Y 




^HE great thoughts, which this occurrence 
S^ would naturally have suggested to the noble 
heart of Fabiola, were suppressed, for a time, 
by the exigencies of the moment. Her first 
• care was to stanch the flowing blood with 
whatever was nearest at hand. While she 
was engaged in this work, there was a general 
rush of servants towards her apartment. The 
stupid porter had begun to be uneasy at Ful- 
vius's long stay (the reader has now heard his 
real name), when he saw him dash out of the door like a 
maniac, and thought he perceived stains of blood upon his 
garment. He immediately gave the alarm to the entire 
household. 

Fabiola by a gesture stopped the crowd at the door of her 
room, and desired only Euphrosyne and her Greek maid to 
enter. The latter, since the influence of the black slave had 
been removed, had attached herself most affectionately to 
Syra, as we must still call her, and had, with great docility, 

* " [The tomb] of Dionysins, physician [and] priest," lately found at the 
entrance to the crypt of St. Coraelius, in the cemetery of Callistus. 



listened to her moral instructions. A slave was instantly 
despatched for the physician who had always been sent for 
by Syra in illness, Dionysius, wlio, as we have already 
observed, lived in the house of Agnes. 

In the meantime Fabiola had been overjoyed at finding 
the blood cease to flow so rapidly, and still more at seeing her 




Cemetery of Callistus. 

servant open her eyes upon her, though only for a moment. 
She would not have exchanged for any wealth the sweet smile 
which accompanied that look. 

In a few minutes the kind physician arrived. He care- 
fully examined the wound, and pronounced favorably on it for 
the present. The blow, as aimed, would have gone straight 
to Fabiola's heart. But her loving servant, in spite of prohi- 
bition, had been hovering near her mistress during the whole 



w 



-g-fl-p 



day ; never intruding, but anxious for any opportunity which 
might offer, of seconding those good impressions of grace, 
which the morning's scfenes could not fail to have produced. 
While in a neighboring room she heard violent tones which 
were too familiar to her ears ; and hastened noiselessly round, 
and within the curtain which covered the door of Fabiola's 
own apartment. She stood concealed in the dusk, on the 
very spot where Agnes had, a few months before, consoled her. 

She had not been there long when the last struggle com- 
menced. While the man • was pushing her mistress back- 
wards, she followed him close behind ; and as he was lifting 
his arm, passed him, and threw her body over that of his 
victim. The blow descended, but misdirected, through the 
shock she gave his arm'; and it fell upon her neck, where it 
inflicted a deep wound, checked, however, by encountering the 
collar-bone. We need not say what it cost her to make this 
sacrifice. Not the dread of pain, noi' the fear of death could 
for a moment have deterred her ; it was the horror of imprint- 
ing on her brother's brow the mark of Cain, the making him 
doubly a fratricide, which deeply anguished her. But she 
had offered her life for her mistress. To have fought with the 
assassin, whose strength and agility she knew, would have 
been useless; to try to alarm the house before one fatal 
blow was struck was hopeless ; and nothing remained but to 
accomplish her immolation, by substituting herself for the 
intended victim. Still she wished to spare her brother the 
consummation of his crime, and in doing so manifested to 
Fabiola their relationship and their real names. 

In his blind fury he refused her credit ; but the words, in 
their native tongue, which said, " Remember my scarf which 
you picked up here," brought back to his memory so terrible 
a domestic tale, that had the earth opened a cavern in that 
moment before his feet, he would have leaped into it, to bury 
his remorse and shame. 



Strange, too, it proved, that he should not have ever 
allowed Eurotas to get possession of that family relic, but 
should, ever since he regained it, have kept it apart as a 
sacred thing ; and when all else was being packed up, should 
have folded it up and put it in his breast. And now, in the 
act of drawing out his eastern dagger, he had plucked this out 
too, and both were found upon the floor. 

Dionysius, immediately after dressing the wound, and 
administering proper restoratives, which brought back con- 
sciousness, desired the patient to be left perfectly quiet, to see 
as few persons as possible, so as to prevent excitement, and to 
go on with the treatment which he prescribed until midnight. 
" I will call," he added, " very early in the morning, when I 
must see my patient alone." He whispered a few words in 
her ear, which seemed to do her more good than all his medi- 
cines ; for her countenance brightened into an angelic smile. 

Fabiola had her placed in her own bed, and, allotting to 
her attendants the outward room, reserved to herself exclu- 
sively the privilege, as she deemed it, of nursing the servant, 
to whom a few months before she could hardly feel grateful for 
having tended her in fever. She had informed the others how 
the wound had been inflicted, concealing the relationship 
between her assailant and her deliverer. 

Although herself exhausted and feverish, she w^ould not 
leave the bedside of the patient; and when midnight was 
past, and no more remedies had to be administered, she 
sank to rest upon a low couch close to the bed. And now 
what were her thoughts, when, in the dim light of a sick room, 
she opened her mind and heart to them ? They were simple 
and earnest. She saw at once the reality and truth of all 
that her servant had ever spoken to her. When she last con- 
versed with her, the principles which she heard with delight, 
had appeared to her wholly beyond . practice, beautiful theo- 
ries, which could not be brought to action. When Miriam 



s4rb 



had described a sphere of virtue, wherein no approbation or 
reward of man was to be expected, but only the approving eye 
of God, she had admired the idea, wliich powerfully seized her 
generous mind ; but she had rebelled against its becoming the 
constraining rule of hourly conduct. Yet, if the stroke under 
which she cast herself had proved fatal, as it might easily 
have done, where would have been her reward ? What, then, 
could have been her motive but that very theory, as it seemed, 
of responsibility to an unseen power ? 

And when Miriam had discoursed of heroism in virtue as 
being its ordinary standard, how chimerical the principle had 
seemed ! Yet here, without preparation, without forethought, 
without excitement, without glory, — nay, with marked desire 
of concealment, this slave had performed a deed of self-sacri- 
fice, heroic in every way. From what could that result but 
from habitual heroism of virtue, ready at any hour to do 
what would ennoble forever a soldier's name? She was no 
dreamer, then, no theorist, but a serious, real practiser of all 
that she taught. Could this be a philosophy? Oh, no, it 
must be a religion ! the religion of Agnes and of Sebastian, 
to whom she considered Miriam every way equal. Ho^^^ she 
longed to ccmverse with her again ! 

Early in the morning, according to his promise, the physi- 
cian returned, and found his patient much improved. He 
desired to be left alone with her ; when, having spread a linen 
cloth upon the table, and placed lighted tapers upon it, he 
drew from his bosom an embroidered scarf, and uncovered a 
golden box, the sacred contents of which she well knew. 
Approaching her he said : 

" My dear child, as I promised you, I have now brought 
you not merely the truest remedy of every ailment, bodily and 
spiritual, but the very Physician Himself, who by His word 
alone restoreth all things,* whose touch opens the eyes of the 

* "Qui verbo suo iustaurat universa." Tlie Breviary. 



blind and the ears of the deaf, whose will cleanses lepers, the 
hem of whose garment sends forth virtue to cure all. Are you 
ready to receive Him?" 

"With all my heart," she replied, clasping her hands; 
" I long to possess Him whom alone I have loved, in whom I 
have believed, to whom my heart belongs." 

"Does no anger or indignation exist in your soul against 
Mm \^^o has injured you ? does any pride or vanity arise in 
your mind at the thought of what you have done ? or are you 
conscious of any other fault requiring humble confession and 
absolution before receiving the sacred gift into your breast? ". 

" Full of imperfection and sin I know myself to be, vener- 
able father ; but I am not conscious of any knowing offence. I 
have had no need to forgive him to whom you allude ; I love 
him too much for that, and would willingly give my life to save 
him. And of what have I to be proud, a poor servant, who 
have only obeyed my Lord's commands? " 

"Invite then, my child, this Lord into your house, that 
coming He may heal you, and fill you with His grace." 

Approaching the table, he took from it a particle of the 
Blessed Eucharist, in the form of unleavened bread, which, 
being dry, he moistened in water, and placed within her lips.* 
She closed them upon it, and remained for some time absorbed 
in contemplation. 

And thus did the holy Dionysius discharge his twofold 
office of physician and priest, attributed to him on his tomb. 

* Ensebius, in his account of Serapion, teaches ns that this was the manner 
of administering Holy Communion to the sick, without the cup, or under only 
one kind. 






CHAPTER XXXII 



THE SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 



HROUGH the whole of that day the 
patient seemed occupied with deep, but 
most pleasing thoughts. Fabiola, who 
never left her, except for moments to give 
necessary directions, watched her coun- 
tenance with a mixture of awe and 
delight. It appeared as if her servant's 
mind were removed from surrounding 
objects, and conversing in a totally dif- 
ferent sphere. Now a smile passed like 
a sunbeam across her features, now a tear trembled in 
her eye, or flowed down her cheeks ; sometimes her 
pupils were raised and kept fixed on heaven for a 
considerable time, while a blissful look of perfect and 
calm enjoyment sat unvarying upon her ; and then she would 
turn round with an expression of infinite tenderness towards 
her mistress, and hold out her hand to be clasped in hers. 
And Fabiola could sit thus for hours in silence, which was as 
yet prescribed ; feeling it an honor, and thinking it did her 
good, to be in contact with such a rare type of virtue. 

At length, in the course of the day, after giving her patient 
some nourishment, she said to her, smiling: "I think you are 
much better, Miriam, already. Your physician must have 
given you some wonderful medicine." 







" Indeed he has, my dearest mistress." 

Fabiola was evident!}^ pained ; and leaning over her, said 
softly: " Oh, do not, I entreat you, call me by such a title. If 
it has to be used, it should be by me towards you. But, in 
fact, it is no longer true ; for what I long intended has now 
been done ; and the instrument of your liberation has been 
ordered to be made out, not as a freedwoman, but as an 
ingenua;* for such I know you are." 

Miriam looked her thanks, for fear of further hurting 
Fabiola's feelings ; and they continued to be happy together 
in silence. 

Towards evening Dionysius returned, and found so great 
an improvement, that, ordering more nourishing food, he per- 
mitted a little quiet conversation. 

" I must now," said Fabiola, so soon as they were alone, 
"fulfill the first duty, which my heart has been burning to 
discharge, that of thanking you, — I wish I knew a stronger 
word, — not for the life which you have saved me, but for the 
magnanimous sacrifice which you made for it — and, let me 
add, the unequalled example of heroic virtue, which alone 
inspired it." 

" After all, what have I done, but simple duty? Tou had 
a right to my life, for a much less cause than to save yours," 
answered Miriam. 

"No doubt," responded Fabiola, "it appears so to you, 
who have been trained to the doctrine which overpowered me, 
that the most heroic acts ought to be considered by men as 
performances of ordinary duties." 

" And thereby," rejoined Miriam, " they cease to be what 
you have called them." 

"No, no," exclaimed Fabiola, with enthusiasm ; "do not 

* Persons freed from slavery retained the title of freedman or freedtvoman 
{liberties, liberta) of the person to whom they had belonged, as " of Augustus." 
If they had belonged originally to a free class, they were liberated as ingenuus or 
ingenua (well-born) and restored by emancipation to that class. 



try to make iiie mean and vile to my own heart, by teaching 
me to imdervakie what I cannot but prize as an unrivalled 
act of virtue. I have been reflecting on it, night and day, 
since I witnessed it; and my heart has been yearning to 
speak to you of it, and even yet I dare not, or I should oppress 
your weakness with my overcharged feelings. It was noble, it 
was grand, it was beyond all reach of praise ; though I know 
you do not want it. I cannot see any way in which the sub- 
limeness of the act could have been enhanced, or human virtue 
rise one step higher." 

Miriam, who was now raised to a reclining position, took 
Fabiola's hand between both hers ; and turning round towards 
her, in a soft and mild, but most earnest tone, thus addressed 
her : 

" Good and gentle lady, for one moment listen to me. ISTot 
to depreciate what you are good enough to value, since it pains 
you to hear it, but to teach you how far we still are from what 
might have been done, let me trace for you a parallel scene, 
but where all shall be reversed. Let it be a slave — pardon 
me, dear Fabiola, for another pang — I see it in your face, but 
it shall be the last — yes, a slave brutish, ungrateful, rebellious 
to the most benign and generous of masters. And let the 
stroke, not of an assassin, but of the minister of justice, impend 
over his head. What would you call the act, how would you 
characterize the virtue, of that master, if out of pure love, and 
that he might reclaim that wretched man, he should rush 
beneath the axe's blow, ay, and its preceding ignominious 
stripes, and leave written in his will, that he made that slave 
heir to his titles and his wealth, and desired him to be con- 
sidered as his brother?" 

" Miriam, Miriam, you have drawn a picture too sublime 
to be believed of man. You have not eclipsed your own deed, 
for I spoke of human virtue. To act as you have now described 
would require, if possible, that of a God ! " 



Miriam pressed the folded hand to her bosom, fixed on 
Fabiola's wondering eyes a look of heavenly inspiration, as 
she sweetly and solemnly replied : " And Jesus Christ, who 

DID ALL THIS FOR MAN, WAS TRULY GOD." 

Fabiola covered her face with both her hands, and for a 
long time was silent. Miriam prayed earnestly in her own 
tranquil heart. 

"Miriam, I thank you from my soul," at length Fabiola 
said ; " you have fulfilled your promise of guiding me. For 
some time I have only been fearing that you might not be a 
Christian ; but it could not be. 

" Now tell me, are those awful, but sweet words, which 
you just now uttered, which have sunk into my heart as 
deeply, as silently, and as irrevocably as a piece of gold 
dropped upon the surface of the still ocean goes down into its 
depths, — are those w^ords a mere part of the Christian system, 
or are they its essential principle ? " 

" From a simple allegory, dear lady, your powerful mind 
has, in one bound, reached and grasped the master-key of 
our whole teaching : the alembic of your fine understanding 
has extracted, and condensed into one thought, the most vital 
and prominent doctrines of Christianity. You have distilled 
them into their very essence. 

" That man, God's creature and bondsman, rebelled against 
his Lord ; that j ustice irresistible had doomed and pursued 
him ; that this very Lord ' took the form of a servant, and in 
habit was found like a man ; ' * that in this form he suffered 
stripes, buffets, mockery, and shameful death, became the 
'Crucified One,' as men here call Him, and thereby rescued 
man from his fate, and gave him part in His own riches and 
kingdom : all this is comprised in the words that I have 
spoken. 

" And you had reached the right conclusion. Only God 

* Phil. ii. 7. 



CTtt- 



could have performed so godlike an action, or have offered so 
sublime an expiation." 

Fabiola was again wrapped up in silent thought, till she 
timidly asked : 

" And was it to this that you referred in Campania, when 
you spoke of God alone being a victim worthy of God ? " 

"Yes; but I further alluded to the continuation of that 
sacrifice, even in our own days, by a marvellous dispensation 
of an all-powerful love. However, on this I must not yet 
speak." 

Fabiola resumed: "I every moment see how all that you 
have ever spoken to me coheres and fits together, like the 
parts of one plant ; all springing one from another. I thought 
it bore only the lovely flowers of an elegant theory ; you have 
shown me in your conduct how these can ripen into sweet and 
solid fruit. In the doctrine which you have just explained, I 
seem to myself to find the noble stem from which all the 
others branch forth — even to that very fruit. For who would 
refuse to do for another, what is much less than God has done 
for him? But, Miriam, there is a deep and unseen root 
whence springs all this, possibly dark beyond contemplation, 
deep beyond reach, complex beyond man's power to unravel; 
yet perhaps simple to a confiding mind. If, in my present 
ignorance, I can venture to speak, it should be vast enough to 
occupy all nature, rich enough to fill creation with all that is 
good and perfect in it, strong enough to bear the growth of 
your noble tree, till its summit reach above the stars, and its 
branches to the ends of earth. 

" I mean, your idea of that God, whom you made me fear, 
when you spoke to me as a philosopher of Him, and taught 
me to know as the ever-present watchman and judge; but 
whom I am sure you will make me love when, as a Christian, 
you exhibit Him to me as the root and origin of such bound- 
less tenderness and mercy. 



"Without some deep mystery in His nature, as yet 
unknown to me, I cannot fully apprehend that wonderful doc- 
trine of man's purchase." 

" Fabiola," responded Miriam, " more learned teachers 
than I should undertake the instruction of one so gifted and 
so acute. But will you believe me if I attempt to give you 
some explanation? " 

"Miriam," replied Fabiola, with strong emphasis, "one 

WHO IS READY TO DIE FOR ANOTHER, WILL CERTAINLY NOT DECEIVE 
HIM.'' 

"And now," rejoined the patient, smiling, "you have 
again seized a great principle — that of faith. I will, there- 
fore, be only the simple narrator of what Jesus Christ, who 
truly died for us, has taught us. You will believe my word 
only as that of a faithful witness; you will accept His, as 
that of an unerring God." 

Fabiola bowed her head, and listened with reverential 
mind to her, in whom she had long honored a teacher of mar- 
vellous wisdom, which she drew from some unknown school ; 
but whom now she almost worshipped as an angel, who could 
open to her the flood-gates of the eternal ocean, whose waters 
are the unfathomable Wisdom, overflowing on earth. 

Miriam expounded, in the simple terms of Catholic teach- 
ing, the sublime doctrine of the Trinity ; then after relating 
the fall of man, unfolded the mystery of the Incarnation, giv- 
ing, in the very words of St. John, the history of the Eternal 
Word, till He was made flesh, and dwelt among men. Often 
was she interrupted by the expressions of admiration or 
assent which her pupil uttered; never by cavil or doubt. 
Philosophy had given place to religion, captiousness to docil- 
ity, incredulity to faith. 

But now a sadness seemed to have come over Fa- 
biola' s heart : Miriam read it in her looks, and asked her its 
cause. 



w 



"I hardly dare tell you," she replied. "But all that you 
have related to me is so beautiful, so divine, that it seems to 
me necessarily to end here. 

"The Word (what a noble name!), that is, the expression 
of God's love, the externation of His wisdom, the evidence of 
His power, the very breath of His life-giving life, which is 
Himself, becometh flesh. Who shall furnish it to Him ? Shall 
He take up the cast-off slough of a tainted humanity, or shall 
a new manhood be created expressly for Himif Shall He 
take His place in a double genealogy, receiving thus into 
Himself a twofold tide of corruption ; and shall there be any 
one on earth daring and high enough to call himself His 
father?" 

" No," softly whispered Miriam ; " but there shall be one 
holy enough, and humble enough, to be worthy to call herself 
His mother ! 

" Almost 800 years before the Son of God came into the 
world, a prophet spoke, and recorded his words, and deposited 
the record of them in the hands of the Jews, Christ's inveter- 
ate enemies; and his words were these: 'Behold, a Virgin 
shall conceive and bear a Son, and His name shall be called 
Emanuel,'* which in the Hebrew language signifies 'God with 
us,' that is with men. 

" This prophecy was of course fulfilled in the conception 
and birth of God's Son on earth." 

"And who was sAe.^" asked Fabiola, with great rever- 
ence. 

" One whose very name is blessed by every one that truly 
loves her Son. Mary is the name by which you will know 
her: Miriam, its original in her own tongue, is the one by 
which I honor her. Well, you may suppose, was she prepared 
for such high destiny by holiness and virtue ; not as cleansed, 
but as ever clean ; not as purified, but as always pure ; not 

* Isaias vii. 14. 



freed, but exempted, from sin. The tide of which you spoke, 
found before her the dam of an eternal decree, which could not 
brook that the holiness of God should mingle with what it 
could only redeem, by keeping extraneous to itself. Bright as 
the blood of Adam, when the breath of God sent it sparkling 
through his veins, pure as the flesh of Eve, while standing yet 
in the mould of the Almighty hands, as they drew it from the 
side of the slumbering man, were the blood and the flesh, 
which the Spirit of God formed into the glorious humanity, 
that Mary gave to Jesus. 

"And after this glorious privilege granted to our sex, 
are you surprised that many, like your sweet Agnes, should 
have chosen this peerless Virgin as the pattern of their lives ; 
should find in her, whom God so elected, the model of every 
virtue ; and should, in preference to allowing themselves to be 
yoked, even by the tenderest of ties, to the chariot-wheels of 
this world, seek to fly upwards on wings of undivided love like 
hers ? " 

After a pause and some reflection, Miriam proceeded briefly 
to detail the history of our Saviour's birth. His laborious 
youth. His active but suffering public life, and then His 
ignominious Passion. Often was the narrative interrupted by 
the tears and sobs of the willing listener and ready learner. 
At last the time for rest had come, when Fabiola humbly 
asked : 

" Are you too fatigued to answer one question more?" 

"No," was the cheerful reply. 

"What hope," said Fabiola, "can there be for one who 
cannot say she was ignorant, for she pretended to know every 
thing ; nor that she neglected to learn, for she affected eager- 
ness after every sort of knowledge ; but can only confess that 
she scorned the true wisdom, and blasphemed its Giver; — 
for one who has scoffed at the very torments which proved 
the love, and sneered at the death which was the ran- 



soming, of Him whom she has mocked at, as the 'Cruci- 
fied ? '" 

A flood of tears stopped her speech. 

Miriam waited till their relieving flow had subsided into 
that gentler dew which softens the heart ; then in soothing 
tones addressed her as follows: 

" In the days of our Lord there lived a woman who bore 
the same name as His spotless Mother ; but she had sinned 
publicly, degradingly, as you, Fabiola, would abhor to sin. 
She became acquainted, we know not how, Avith her Re- 
deemer; in the secrecy of her own heart, she contemplated 
earnestly, till she came to love intensely. His gracious and 
condescending familiarity with sinners, and His singular 
indulgence and forgivingness to the fallen. She loved and 
loved still more; and, forgetting herself, she only thought 
how she might manifest her love, so that it might bring 
honor, however slight, to Him, and shame, however great, on 
herself. 

" She went into the house of a rich man, where the usual 
courtesies of hospitality had been withheld from its Divine 
guest, into the house of a haughty man who spurned, in the 
presumption of his heart, the public sinner ; she supplied the 
attentions which had been neglected to Him whom she loved ; 
and she was scorned, as she expected, for her obtrusive 
sorrow." 

" How did she do this, Miriam ? " 

" She knelt at His feet as He sat at table ; she poured out 
upon them a flood of tears ; she wiped them with her luxuri- 
ous hair, she kissed them fervently, and she anointed them 
with rich perfume." 

" And what was the result?" 

" She was defended by Jesus against the carping gibes of 
His host ; she was told that she was forgiven on account of 
her love, and was dismissed with kindest comfort." 



w 



" And what became of her ? " 

"When on Calvary He was crucified, two w^omen were 
privileged to stand close to Him ; Mary the sinless, and Mary 
the penitent : to show how unsullied and repentant love may 
walk hand in hand, beside Him who said that He had ' come 
to call not the just, but sinners to repentance.' " 

No more was said that night. Miriam, fatigued wdth her 
exertion, sank into a placid slumber. Fabiola sat by her side, 
filled to her heart's brim with this tale of love. She pon- 
dered over it again and again ; and she still saw more and 
more how every part of this wonderful system was consistent. 
For if Miriam had been ready to die for her, in imitation of 
her Saviour's love, so had she been as ready to forgive her, 
when she had thoughtlessly injured her. Every Christian, 
she now felt, ought to be a copy, a representative of his 
Master ; but the one that slumbered so tranquilly beside her 
was surely true to her model, and might well represent Him 
to her. 

When, after some time, Miriam awoke, she found her mis- 
tress (for her patent of freedom was not yet completed) lying 
at her feet, over which she had sobbed herself to sleep. She 
understood at once the full meaning and merit of this self- 
humiliation ; she did not stir, but thanked God with a full 
heart that her sacrifice had been accepted. 

Fabiola, on awaking, crept back to her own couch, as she 
thought, unobserved. A secret, sharp pang it had cost her 
to perform this act of self-abasement ; but she had thoroughly 
humbled the pride of her heart. She felt for the first time 
that her heart was Christian. 



mr 



-(W 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 
MIRIAM'S HISTORY. 

?HE next morning, when Dionysius came, he 
found both patient and nurse so radiant and 
so happy, that he congratulated them both on 
having had a good night's rest. Both laughed 
at the idea ; but concurred in saying that it 
had been the happiest night of their lives. 
Dionysius was surprised, till Miriam, taking 
the hand of Fabiola, said : 

" Venerable priest of God, I confide to your fatherly care 
this catechumen, who desires to be fully instructed in the 
mysteries of our holy faith, and to be regenerated by the 
waters of eternal salvation." 

" What ! " asked Fabiola, amazed, " are you more than a 
physician ? " 

"I am, my child," the old man replied; "unworthily I 
hold likewise the higher office of a priest in God's Church." 

Fabiola unhesitatingly knelt before him, and kissed his 
hand. The priest placed his right hand upon her head, and 
said to her : 

"Be of good courage, daughter ; you are not the first of 
your house whom God has brought into His holy Church. It 
is now many years since I was called in here, under the guise 
of a physician, by a former servant, now no more; but in 
reality it was to baptize, a few hours before her death, the 
wife of Fabius." 



"My mother!" exclaimed Fabiola. "She died immedi- 
ately after giving me birth. And did she die a Christian ? " 

" Yes ; and I doubt not that her spirit has been hovering 
about you through life by the side of the angel who guards 
you, guiding you unseen to this blessed hour. And, before 
the throne of God, she has been unceasing in her supplica- 
tions on your behalf." 

Joy tenfold filled the breasts of the two friends ; and after 
arrangements had been made with Dionysius for the neces- 
sary instructions and preparations for Fabiola' s admission to 
baptism, she went up to the side of Miriam, and taking her 
hand, said to her in a low, soft voice : 

"Miriam, may I from henceforth call you sister?" A 
pressure of the hand was the only reply which she could give. 

With their mistress, the old nurse, Euphrosyne, and the 
Greek slave, placed themselves, as we now say, under instruc- 
tion, to receive baptism on Easter-eve. 'Nov must we forget 
one who was already enrolled in the list of catechumens, and 
whom Fabiola had taken home with her and kept, Emerenti- 
ana, the foster-sister of Agnes. It was her delight to make 
herself useful, by being the ready messenger between the 
sick-room and the rest of the house. 

During her illness, as her strength improved, Miriam 
imparted many particulars of her previous life to Fabiola; 
and as they will throw some light on our preceding narrative, 
we will give her history in a continuous form. 

Some years before our story commenced, there lived in 
Antioch a man who, though not of ancient family, was rich, 
and moved in the highest circles of that most luxurious city. 
To keep his position, he was obliged to indulge in great 
expense ; and from want of strict economy, he had gradually 
become oppressed with debt. He was married to a lady of 
great virtue, who became a Christian, at first secretly, and 
afterwards continued so, with her husband's reluctant con- 



^ 






sent. In the meantime their two children, a son and daugh- 
ter, had received their domestic education under her care. 
The former, Orontius, so called from the favorite stream which 
watered the city, was fifteen when his father first discovered 
his wife's religion. He had learnt much from his mother of 
the doctrines of Christianity, and had been with her an 
attendant on Christian worship ; and hence he possessed a 
dangerous knowledge, of which he afterwards made so fatal 

a use. 

But he had not the least inclination to embrace the doc- 
trines, or adopt the practices of Christianity ; nor would he 
hear of preparing for baptism. He was wilful and artful, with 
no love for any restraint upon his passions, or for any strict 
morality. He looked forward to distinction in the world, and 
to his full share in all its enjoyments. He had been, and 
continued to be, highly educated; and besides the Greek 
language, then generally spoken at Antioch, he was acquainted 
with Latin, which he spoke readily and gracefidly, as we have 
seen, though with a slight foreign accent. In the family, the 
vernacular idiom was used with servants, and often in familiar 
conversation. Orontius was not sorry when his father removed 
him from his mother's control, and insisted that he should 
continue to follow the dominant and favored religion of the 

state. 

As to the daughter, who was three years younger, he did 
not so much care. He deemed it foolish and unmanly to take 
much trouble about religion ; to change it especially, or 
abandon that of the empire, was, he thought, a sign of weak- 
ness. But women being more imaginative, and more under 
the sway of the feelings, might be indulged in any fancies of 
this sort. Accordingly he permitted his daughter Miriam, 
whose name was Syrian, as the mother belonged to a rich 
family from Edessa, to continue in the free exercise of her new 
faith. She became, in addition to her high mental cultivation. 



a model of virtue, simple and unpretending. It was a period, 
we may observe, in which the city of Antioch was renowned 
for the learning of its philosophers, some of whom were eminent 
as Christians. 

A few years later, when the son had reached manhood, and 
had abundantly unfolded his character, the mother died. 
Before her end, she had seen symptoms of her husband's 
impending ruin; and, determined that her daughter should 
not be dependent on his careless administration, nor on her 
son's ominous selfishness and ambition, she secured effectually 
from the covetousness of both, her own large fortune, which 
was settled on her daughter. She resisted every influence, 
and every art, employed to induce her to release this property, 
or allow it to merge in the family resources, and be made 
available towards relieving their embarrassments. And on 
her death-bed, among other solemn parental injunctions, she 
laid this on her daughter's filial sense of duty, that she never 
would allow, after coming of age, any alteration in this arrange- 
ment. 

Matters grew worse and worse ; creditors pressed ; property 
had been injudiciously disposed of; when a mysterious person, 
called Eurotas, made his appearance in the family. No one 
but its head seemed to know him ; and he evidently looked 
upon him as at once a blessing and a curse, the bearer both 
of salvation and of ruin. 

The reader is in possession of Eurotas' s own revelations ; 
it is sufficient to add, that being the elder brother, but con- 
scious that his rough, morose, and sinister character did not 
fit him for sustaining the position of head of the family and 
administering quietly a settled property, and having a haughty 
ambition to raise his house into a nobler rank, and increase 
even its riches, he took but a moderate sum of money as cap- 
ital, ^'anished for years, embarked in the desperate traffic of 
intei'ior Asia, penetrated into China and India, and came back 



mr 



w 



home with a large fortune, and a collection of rare gems, which 
helped his nephew's brief career, but misguided him to ruin in 
Rome. 

Eurotas, instead of a rich family, into which to pour super- 
fluous wealth, found only a bankrupt house to save from ruin. 
But his family pride prevailed ; and after many reproaches, 
and bitter quarrels with his brother, but concealed from all 
else, he paid off his debts by the extinction of his own capital, 
and thus virtually became master of all the wreck of his 
brother's property, and of the entire family. 

After a few years of weary life, the father sickened and 
died. On his death-bed, he told Orontius that he had nothing 
to leave him, that all he had lived on for some years, the very 
house over his head, belonged to his friend Eurotas, whose 
relationship he did not further explain, whom he must look up 
to entirely for support and guidance. The youth thus found 
himself, while full of pride, ambition, and voluptuousness, in 
the hands of a cold-hearted, remorseless, and no less ambitious 
man, who soon prescribed as the basis of mutual confidence, 
absolute submission to his will, while he should act in the 
capacity of an inferior, and the understood principle, that 
nothing was too great or too little, nothing too good or too 
wicked to be done, to restore family position and wealth. 

To stay at Antioch was impossible after the ruin which 
had overtaken the house. With a good capital in hand, much 
might be done elsewhere. But now, even the sale of all left 
would scarcely cover the liabilities discovered after the father's 
death. There was still untouched the sister's fortune ; and 
both agreed that this must be got from her. Every artifice 
was tried, every persuasion employed, but she simply and 
firmly resisted; both in obedience to her mother's dying 
orders, and because she had in view the establishment of a 
house for consecrated virgins, in which she intended to pass 
her days. She was now just of legal age to dispose of her 



own property. She offered them every advantage that she 
could give them ; proposed that for a time they should all live 
together upon her means. But this did not answer their pur- 
pose ; and when every other course had failed, Eurotas began 
to hint, that one who stood so much in their way should be got 
rid of at any cost. 

Orontius shuddered at the first proposal of the thought. 
Eurotas familiarized him gradually with it, till — shrinking yet 
from the actual commission of fratricide — he thought hie had 
almost done something virtuous, as the brothers of Joseph 
imagined they did, by adopting a slower and less sanguinary 
method of dealing with an obnoxious brother. Stratagem and 
unseen violence, of which no law could take cognizance, and 
which no one would dare reveal, offered him the best chance 
of success. 

Among the privileges of Christians in the first ages, we 
have already mentioned that of reserving the Blessed Euchar- 
ist at home for domestic communion. We have described the 
way in which it was enfolded in an orarium, or linen cloth, 
again often preserved in a richer cover. This precious gift 
was kept in a chest [area) with a lid, as St. Cyprian has 
informed us.* Orontius well knew this ; and he was more- 
over aware that its contents were more prized than silver or 
gold ; that, as the Fathers tell us, to drop negligently a crumb 
of the consecrated bread was considered a crime ; t and that 
the name of "pearl," which was given to the smallest frag- 
ment,! showed that it was so precious in a Christian's eye, 

* " Cum arcam suam, in qua Domini sanctum fuit, manibus indignis tentasset 
aperire, igne inde surgente deterrita est, ne auderet attingere." "When she 
attempted to open, with unworthy hands, her chest, in which was the holy (body) 
of our Lord, she was deterred from daring to touch it, by fire rising up from it." 
De Lapsis. 

f See Marteune, De antiquis EcclesicB Ritiius. 

X So in the eastern liturgies. Fortunatus calls the Blessed Eucharist, " Cor- 
poris Agni margaritum ingens." " The huge pearl of the Body of the Lamb." 
Lib. iii. ear. 25. 



that he would part with all he possessed to rescue it from 
sacrilegious profanation. 

The scarf richly embroidered with i)earls, which has more 
than once affected our narrative, was the outer covering in 
which Miriam's mother had preserved this treasure ; and her 
daughter valued it both as a dear inheritance, and as a conse- 
crated object, for she continued its use. 

One day, early in the morning, she knelt before her ark ; 
and after fervent preparation by prayer, proceeded to open it. 
To her dismay she found it already unlocked, and her treasure 
gone ! Like Mary Magdalen at the sepulchre, she wept bit- 
terly, because they had taken her Lord, and she knew not 
where they had laid Him. Like her, too, " as she was weep- 
ing she stooped down and looked" again into her ark, and 
found a paper, which in the confusion of the first glance she 
had overlooked. 

It informed her that what she sought was safe in her 
brother's hands, and might be ransomed. She ran at. once to 
him, where he was closeted with the dark man, in whose 
presence she always trembled ; threw herself on her knees 
before him, and entreated him to restore what she valued 
more than all her wealth. He was on the point of yielding 
to her tears and supplications, when Eui'otas fixed his stern 
eye upon him, overawed him, then himself addressed her, 
saying : 

" Miriam, we take you at your word. We wish to put the 
earnestness and reality of your faith to a sufficient test. Are 
you truly sincere in what you offer ? " 

" I will surrender any thing, all I have, to rescue from 
profanation the Holy of Holies." 

"Then sign that paper," said Eurotas, with a sneer. 

She took the pen in her hand, and after running her eye 
over the document, signed it. It was a surrender of her 
entire property to Eurotas. Orontius was furious when he 



saw himself overreached, by the man to whom he had sug- 
gested the snare for his sister. But it was too late ; he was 
only the faster in his unsparing gripe. A more formal renun- 
ciation of her rights was exacted from Miriam, with the 
formalities required by the Roman law. 

For a short time she was treated soothingly ; then hints 
began to be given to her of the necessity of moving, as Oron- 
tius and his friend intended to proceed to Mcomedia, the 
imperial residence. She asked to be sent to Jerusalem, where 
she would obtain admission into some community of holy 
women. She was accordingly embarked on board a vessel, 
the captain of which bore a suspicious character, and was 
very sparingly supplied with means. But she bore round her 
neck what she had given proof of valuing, more than any 
wealth. For, as St. Ambrose relates of his brother Satyrus, 
yet a catechumen. Christians carried round their necks the 
Holy Eucharist, when embarking for a voyage.* We need not 
say that Miriam bore it securely folded in the only thing of 
price she cared to take from her father's house. 

When the vessel was out at sea, instead of coasting towards 
Joppe or any port on the coast, the captain stood straight out, 
as if making for some distant shore. What his purpose was, 
it was difficult to conjecture ; but his few passengers became 
alarmed, and a serious altercation ensued. This was cut short 
by a sudden storm ; the vessel was carried forward at the 
mercy of the winds for some days, and then dashed to pieces 
on a rocky island near Cyprus. Like Satyrus, Miriam attrib- 
uted her reaching the shoi-e in safety to the precious burden 
which she bore. She was almost the only survivor ; at least 
she saw no other person saved. Those, therefore, that did 
live besides, on returning to Antioch, reported her death, 
together with that of the remaining passengei'S and crew. 

She was picked up on the shore by men who lived on such 

* De morte Satyri. 



spoil. Destitute and friendless, she was sold to a trader in 
slaves, taken to Tarsus, on the mainland, and again sold to a 
person of high rank, who treated her with kindness. 

After a short time, Fabius instructed one of his agents in 
Asia to procure a slave of polished manners and virtuous 
character, if possible, at any price, to attend on his daughter ; 
and Miriam, under the name of Syra, came to bring salvation 
to the house of Fabiola. 




Ordination, from a picture in the Catacombs. 




CHAPTER XXXIV 
BRIGHT DEATH. 

j^T was a few days after the occiiiTences 
related in our last chapter but one, that 
Fabiola was told, that an old man in 
great anguish, real or pretended, desired 
to speak with her. On going down to 
him and asking him his name and busi- 
ness, he replied : 

" My name, noble lady, is Ephraim ; 
and I have a large debt secured on the 
property of the late Lady Agnes, which I understand has now 
passed into your hands ; and I am come, therefore, to claim it 
from you, for otherwise I am a ruined man ! " 

"How is that possible?" asked Fabiola in amaze- 
ment. " I cannot believe that my cousin ever contracted 
debts." 

"No, not s7ie," rejoined the usurer, a little abashed; 
"but a gentleman called Fulvius, to whom the property 
was to come by confiscation ; so I advanced him large sums 
upon it." 

Her first impulse was to turn the man out of the house ; 
but the thought of the sister came to her mind, and yhe civilly 
said to him : 

"Whatever debts. Fulvius has contracted I will discharge; 
but with only legal interest, and without regard to usurious 
contracts." 



" But think of the risks I ran, madam. I have been most 
moderate in my rates, I assure you." 

"Well," she answered, "call on my steward, and he shall 
settle all. You are running no risks now at least." 

She gave instructions, accordingly, to the freed-man who 
managed her affairs, to pay this sum on those conditions, 
which reduced it to one half the demand. But she soon 
engaged him in a more laborious task, that of going through 
the whole of her late father's accounts, and ascertaining every 
case of injury or oppression, that restitution might be made. 
And further, having ascertained that Corvinus had really 
obtained the imperial rescript, through his father, by which 
her own lawful property was saved from confiscation, 
though she refused ever to see him, she bestowed upon 
him such a remuneration as would ensure him comfort 
through life. 

These temporal matters being soon disposed of, she divided 
her attention between the care of the patient and preparation 
for her Christian initiation. To promote Miriam's recovery, 
she removed her, with a small portion of her household, to a 
spot dear to both, the Nomentan villa. The spring had set in, 
and Miriam could have her couch brought to the window, or, 
in the warmest part of the day, could even be carried down 
into the garden before the house, where, with Fabiola on one 
side and Emerentiana on the other, and poor Molossus, who 
had lost all his spirit, at her feet, they would talk of friends 
lost, and especially of her with whom every object around was 
associated in their memories. And no sooner was the name 
of Agnes mentioned, than her old faithful guard would prick 
up his ears and wag his tail, and look around him. They 
would also frequently discourse on Christian subjects, when 
Miriam would follow up, humbly and unpretendingly, but with 
the warm glow which had first charmed Fabiola, the instruc- 
tions given by the holy Dionysius. 



^ 



Thus, for instance, when he had been treating of the virtue 
and meaning of the sign of the cross to be used in baptism, 
" whether on the forehead of believers, or over the water, by 
which they were to be regenerated, or the oil with which, as 
well as the chrism, they were anointed, or the sacrifice by 
which they are fed ; " * Miriam explained to the catechumens 
its more domestic and practical use, and exhorted them to 
practise faithfully what all good Christians did, that is, to 
make this holy sign upon themselves already, "in the course 
and at the beginning of every work, on coming in and going 
out, when putting on their clothes, or sandals, when they 
washed, sat down to table, lighted their lamp, lay down in 
bed, or sat on a chair, in whatever conversation they should 
be engaged." t 

But it was observed with ])ain, by all but Fabiola, that 
the patient, though the wound had healed, did not gain 
strength. It is often the mother or sister that is last to see 
the slow waste of illness, in child or sister. Love is so hope- 
ful, and so blind ! There was a hectic flush on her cheek, she 
was emaciated and weak, and a slight cough was heard from 
time to time. She lay long awake, and she desired to have 
her bed so placed that from early dawn she could look out 
upon one spot more fair to them all than the richest 
parterre. 

There had long been in the villa an entrance to the ceme- 
tery on this road ; but from this time it had already received 
the name of Agnes ; for near its entrance had this holy martyr 
been buried. Her body rested in a cuhiculum or chamber, 
under an arched tomb. Just above the entrance into this 
chamber, and in the middle of the grounds, was an opening, 
surrounded above by a low parapet, concealed by shrubs, 

* St. Aug. Tract, cxviii. in Joan. 

f Tertullian (who lived earlier than two hundred years after Christ, and is 
the oldest Latin ecclesiastical writer) de Corona Milii. c. 3. 




Fabiola went down herself, with a Tew servants, and what was her 
distress at finding poor Emerentiana lying weltering in her blood, 
and perfectly dead. 



which gave light and air to the room below. Towards this 
point Miriam loved to look, as the nearest approach she could 
make, in her infirm health, to the sepulchre of one whom she 
so much venerated and loved. 

Early one morning, beautiful and calm, for it wanted but 
a few weeks to Easter, she was looking in that direction, when 
she observed half-a-dozen young men, who on their way to 
angle in the neighboring Anio, were taking a short cut across 
the villa, and so committing a trespass. They passed by this 
0]3ening; and one of them, having looked down, called the 
others. 

"This is one of those underground lurking-places of the 
Christians." 

" One of their rabbit-holes into the burrow." 

"Let us go in," said one. 

"Yes, and how shall we get up again?" asked a 
second. 

This dialogue she could not hear, but she saw what fol- 
lowed it. One who had looked down more carefully, shading 
his eyes from the light, called the others to do the same, but 
with gestures which enjoined silence. In a moment they 
pulled down large stones from the rock- work of a fountain, 
close at hand, and threw down a volley of them at something 
below. They laughed very heartily as they went away ; and 
Miriam supposed that they had seen some serpent or other 
noxious animal below, and had amused themselves with 
pelting it. 

When others were stirring she mentioned the occurrence, 
that the stones might be removed. Fabiola went down her- 
self with a few servants, for she was jealous of the custody of 
Agnes' s tomb. What was her distress at finding poor Emer- 
entiana gone down to pray at her foster-sister's tomb, lying 
weltering in her blood, and perfectly dead. It was discovered 
that, the evening before, passing by some Pagan orgies near 



uuei y,iru 



w 



the liver, and being invited to join in them, she had not only 
refused, but had reproached the partakers in them with their 
wiclcedness, and with their cruelties to Christians. They 
assailed her with stones, and grievously wounded her; but 
she escaped from their fury into the villa. Feeling herself 
faint and wounded, she crept unnoticed to the tomb of Agnes, 
there to pray. She had been unable to move away when some 
of her former assailants discovered her. Those brutal Pagans 
had anticipated the ministry of the Church, and had conferred 
upon her the baptism of blood. She was buried near Agnes, 
and the modest peasant child received the honor of annual 
commemoration among the Saints. 

Fabiola and her companions went through the usual course 
of preparation, though abridged on account of the persecution. 
By living at the very entrance into a cemetery, and one fur- 
nished with such large churches, they were enabled to pass 
through the three stages of catechumenship. First they 
Were hearers* admitted to be present, while the lessons 
were read; then kneelers,\ who assisted at a portion of 
the liturgical prayers ; and lastly elect, or petitioners t for 
baptism. 

Once in this last class, they had to attend frequently in 
church, but more particularly on the three Wednesdays follow- 
ing the first, the fourth, and the last Sundays in Lent, on 
which days the Roman Missal yet retains a second collect and 
lesson, derived from this custom. Any one perusing the 
present rite of baptism in the Catholic Church, especially that 
of adults, will see condensed into one office what used to be 
anciently distributed through a variety of functions. On one 
day the renunciation of Satan was made, previous to its repe- 
tition just before baptism ; on another the touching of the ears 
and nostrils, or the EphpJieta, as it was called. Then were 

* Audientes. J Electi and coinpetentes. 

f G-enuflectentes. 



tl 



repeated exorcisms, and genuflections, and signings of crosses 
on the forehead and body,* breathings upon the candidate, and 
other mysterious rites. More solemn still was the unction, 
which was not confined to the head, but extended to the whole 
body. 

The Creed was also faithfully learnt, and committed to 
memory. But the doctrine of the Blessed Eucharist was not 
imparted till after baptism. 

In these multiplied preparatory exercises the penitential 
time of Lent passed quickly and solemnly, till at last Easter- 
eve arrived. 

It does not fall to our lot to describe the ceremonial of the 
Church in the administration of the Sacraments. The litui- 
gical system received its great developments after peace had 
been gained ; and much that belongs to outward forms and 
splendor was incompatible with the bitter persecution which 
the Church was undergoing. 

It is enough for us to have shown, how not only doc- 
trines and great sacred rites, but how even ceremonies and 
accessories were the same in the three first centuries as 
now. If our example is thought worth following, some one 
will perhaps illustrate a brighter period than we have 
chosen. 

The baptism of Fabiola and her household had nothing to 
cheer it but purely spiritual joy. The titles in the city were 
all closed, and among them that of St. Pastor with its papal 
baptistery. 

Early, therefore, on the morning of the auspicious day, the 
party crept round the walls to the opposite side of the city, and 
following the Via Portuensis, or road that led to the port at 
the mouth of the Tiber, turned into a vineyard near Ctesar's 
gardens, and descended into the cemetery of Pontianus, cele- 

* These will be found, particularly in the baptism of adults, joined with 
repetitions of the Our Father. 



rtrb 



w 



brated as the resting-place of the Persian martyrs, SS. Abdon 
and Sennen. 

The morning was spent in prayer and preparation, when 
towards evening the solemn office, which was to be protracted 
through the night, commenced. 

When the time for the administration of baptism arrived, 
it was indeed but a dreary celebration that it introduced. 
Deep in the bowels of the earth the waters of a subterranean 
stream had been gathered into a square well or cistern, from 
four to five feet deep. They were clear, indeed, but cold and 
bleak, if we may use the expression, in their subterranean 
bath, formed out of the tufa, or volcanic rock. A long flight 
of steps led down to this rude baptistery, a small ledge at the 
side sufficed for the minister and the candidate, who was thrice 
immersed in the purifying waters. 

The whole remains to this day, just as it was then, except 
that over the water is now to be seen a painting of St. John 
baptizing our Lord, added probably a century or two 
later. 

Immediately after Baptism followed Confirmation, and then 
the neophyte, or new-born child of the Church, after due 
instruction, was admitted for the first time to the table of his 
Lord, and nourished with the Bread of angels. 

It was not till late on Easter-day that Fabiola returned to 
her villa ; and a long and silent embrace was her first greeting 
of Miriam. Both were so happy, so blissful, so fully repaid 
for all that they had been to one another for months, that no 
words could give expression to their feelings. Fabiola' s grand 
idea and absorbing pride, that day was, that now she had 
risen to the level of her former slave : not in virtue, not in 
beauty of character, not in greatness of mind, not in heavenly 
wisdom, not in merit before God ; oh ! no ; in all this she felt 
herself infinitely her inferior. But as a child of God, as heiress 
to an eternal kingdom, as a living member of the body of 



mr 



Christ, as admitted to a share in all His mercies, to all the 
price of His redemption, as a new creature in Him, she felt 
that she was equal to Miriam, and with happy glee she told 
her so. 

Never had she been so proud of splendid garment as 
she was of the white robe, which she had received as she 
came out of the font, and which she had to wear for eight 
days. 

But a merciful Father knows how to blend our joys and 
sorrows, and sends us the latter when He has best prepared 
us for them. In that Avarm embrace which we have men- 
tioned, she for the first time noticed the shortened breath, and 
heaving chest of her dear sister. She would not dwell upon 
it in her thoughts, but sent to beg Dionysius to come on the 
morrow. That evening they all kept their Easter banquet 
together; and Fabiola felt happy to preside at Miriam's side 
over a table, at which reclined or sat her own converted 
slaves, and those of Agnes' s household, all of whom she had 
retained. She never remembered having enjoyed so delightful 
a supper. 

Early next morning, Miriam called Fabiola to her side, and 
with a fond, caressing manner, which she had never before 
displayed, said to her : 

" My dear sister, what will you do, when I have left 
you?" 

Poor Fabiola was overpowered with grief. " Are you 
then going to leave me? I had hoped we should live for 
ever as sisters together. But if you wish to leave Rome, 
may I not accompany you, at least to nurse you, to serve 
you ? " 

Miriam smiled, but a tear was in her eye, as taking her 
sister's hand, she pointed up towards heaven. Fabiola under- 
stood her, and said : " 0, no, no, dearest sister. Pray to God, 
who will refuse you nothing, that I may not lose you. It is 



cnfai 



selfish, I know ; but what can I do without you ? And now 
too, that I have learnt how much they who reign with Christ 
can do for us by intercession, I will pray to Agnes* and 
Sebastian, to interi^ose for me, and avert so great a 
calamity. 

" Do get well : I am sure tlifere is nothing serious in the 
matter; the warm weather, and the genial climate of Campa- 
nia, will soon restore you. We will sit again together by the 
spring, and talk over better things than philosophy." 

Miriam shook her head, not mournfully, but cheerfully, as 
she replied : 

"Do not" flatter yourself, dearest; God has spared me till 
I should see this happy day. But His hand is on me now for 
death, as it has been hitherto for life; and I hail it with joy. 
I know too well the number of my days." 

" Oh ! let it not be so soon ! " sobbed out Fabiola. 

" Not while you have on your white garment, dear sister," 
answered Miriam. " I know you would wish to mourn for me ; 
but I would not rob you of one hour of your mystic white- 
ness." 

Dionysius came, and saw a great change in his patient, 
whom he had not visited for some time. It was as he had 
feared it might be. The insidious point of the dagger had 
curled round the bone, and injured the pleura; and phthisis 

* " Agnse sepulchrum est Eomnlea in domo, 
Fortis puellse, martyris inclitge. 
Conspectu iu ipso condita turrium 
Servat salutem virgo Quiritiim : 
Necnon et ipsos protegit advenas, 
Puro ac fideli pectore supplices." 

Prudentius. 

" The tomb of Agnes graces Eome, 
A maiden brave, a martyr great. 
Eesting in sight of bastioned gate. 
From harm the virgin shields her home ; 
Nor to the stranger help denies. 
If sought with pure and faithful sighs." 




Administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, in the Early Ages 
of the Church. 



had rapidly set in. He confirmed Miriam's most serious 
anticipations. 

Fabiola went to pray for resignation at the sepulchre of 
Agnes ; she prayed long and fervently, and with many tears, 
then returned. 

"Sister," she said with firmn'ess, "God's will be done, I 
am ready to resign even you to Him. Now, tell me, I entreat 
you, what would you have me do, after you are taken 
from me? " 

Miriam looked up to heaven, and answered, " Lay my body 
at the feet of Agnes, and remain to watch over us, to pray to 
her, and for me ; until a stranger shall arrive from the East, 
the bearer of good tidings." 

On the Sunday following, " Sunday of the white garments," 
Dionysius celebrated, by special permission, the sacred mys- 
teries in Miriam's room, and administered to her the most holy 
Communion, as her viaticum. This private celebration, as we 
know from St. Augustine and others was not a rare privilege.* 
Afterwards, he anointed her with oil, accompanied by prayer, 
the last Sacrament which the Church bestows. 

Fabiola and the household who had attended these solemn 
rites, with tears and prayers, now descended into the crypt, 
and after the divine offices returned to Miriam in their darker 
raiment. 

"The hour is come," said she, taking Fabiola' s hand. 
" Forgive me, if I have been wanting in duty to you, and in 
good example." 

This was more than Fabiola could stand, and she burst 
into tears. Miriam soothed her, and said, " Put to my lips the 
sign of salvation when I can speak no more; and, good 
Dionysius, remember me at God's altar when I am departed." 

* St. Ambrose said Mass in the bouse of a lady beyond the Tiber. (Paulinus, 
in his Life, torn. ii. Oper. ed. Bened.) St. Augustine mentions a priest's saying 
Mass in a house supposed to be infested with evil spirits. De Civ. D. lib. 
xxii. c. 6. 



He prayed at her side, and she replied, till at length her 
voice failed her. But her lips moved, and she pressed them 
on the cross presented to her. She looked serene and joyful, 
till at length raising her hand to her forehead, then bringing 
it to her breast, it fell dead there, in making the saving sign. 
A smile passed over her face, and she expired, as thousands 
of Christ's children have expired since. 

Fabiola mourned much over her ; but this time she mourned 
as they do who have hope. 




Portrait of Oar Saviour, from the Catacomb of St. CaUistns, 




Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, after a medal of the time. 



IPart ®})trir.-bictorg. 



CHAPTER I. 
THE STRANGER FROM THE EAST. 

^E appear to ourselves to be walking in 
solitude. One by one, those whose words 
and actions, and even thoughts, have 
hitherto accompanied and sustained us, 
have dropped off, and the prospect around 
very dreary. But is all this unnatural? 
We have been describing not an ordinary period 
of peace and every-day life, but one of warfare, strife, and 
battle. Is it unnatural that the bravest, the most heroic, 
should have fallen thick around us ? We have been reviving 
the memory of the cruellest persecution which the Church ever 
suffered, when it was proposed to erect a column bearing the 
inscription that the Christian name had been extinguished. 
Is it strange that the holiest and purest should have been the 
earliest to be crowned ? 

And yet the Church of Christ has still to sustain many 




^ 



years of sharper persecution than we have described. A suc- 
cession of tyrants and oppressors kept up the fearful war upon 
her, without intermission, in one part of the world or another 
for twenty years, even after Constantine had checked it 
wherever his power reached. Dioclesian, 
Galerius, Maximinus, and Lucinius in 
the East, Maximian and Maxentius in 
the West, allowed no rest to the Chris- 
tians under their several dominions. 
Like one of those rolling storms which 
go over half the world, visiting various 
countries with their ravaging energy, 
while their gloomy foreboding or sullen wake simultaneously 
overshadow them all, so did this persecution wreak its fury 
first on one country, then on another, destroying every thing 
Christian, passing from Italy to Africa, from Upper Asia to 




laoClXEBIAS. 

After amedal in the Cabinet of France, 






LucrNTTjs. 

From a Gold Medal in the 

French Collection. 



Maxentius. 

From a Silver Medal in the 

French Collection. 



Gaxerifs-Maximinits. 

'rom a Silver Medal in the 

French Collection. 



Palestine, Egypt, and then back to Armenia, while it left no 
place in actual peace, but hung like a blighting storm-cloud 
over the entire empire. 

And yet the Church increased, prospered, and defied this 
world of sin. Pontiff stepped after Pontiff at once upon the 
footstool of the papal throne and upon the scaffold ; councils 
were held in the dark halls of the catacombs ; bishops came 
to Rome, at risk of their lives, to consult the successor of 
St. Peter; letters were exchanged between Churches far 
distant and the supreme Ruler of Christendom, and between 
different Churches, full of sympathy, encouragement and affec- 



tion ; bishop succeeded bishop in his see, and ordained priests 
and other ministers to take the place of the fallen, and be a 
mark set upon the bulwarks of the city for the enemy's aim ; 
and the work of Christ's imperishable kingdom went on with- 
out interruption, and without fear of extinction. 

Indeed it was in the midst of all these alarms and conflicts, 
that the foundations were being laid of a mighty system, 
destined to produce stupendous effects in after ages. The 
persecution drove many from the cities, into the deserts of 
Egypt, where the monastic state grew up, so as to make " the 
wilderness rejoice and flourish like the lily bud forth and 
blossom, and rejoice with joy and praise."* And so, when 
Dioclesian had been degraded from the purple, and had died a 
peevish destitute old man, and Galerius had been eaten up 
alive by ulcers and worms, and had acknowledged, by public 
edict, the failure of his attempts, and Maximian Herculeus 
had strangled himself, and Maxentius had perished in the 
Tiber, and Maximinus had expired amidst tortures inflicted 
by Divine justice equal to any lie had inflicted on Christians, 
his very eyes having stalled from their sockets, and Licinius 
had been put to death by Constantino ; the spouse of Christ, 
whom they had all conspired to destroy, stood young and 
blooming as ever, about to enter into her great career of 
universal diffusion and rule. 

It was in the year 313 that Constantino, having defeated 
Maxentius, gave full liberty to the Church. Even if ancient 
writers had not described it, we may imagine the joy and 
gratitude of the poor Christians on this great change. It was 
like the coming forth, and tearful though happy greeting, of 
the inhabitants of a city decimated by plague, when proclama- 
tion has gone forth that the infection has ceased. For here, 
after ten years of separation and concealment, when families 
could scarcely meet in the cemeteries nearest to them, many 

* Isaias xxxv. 1, 3. 



did not know who among friends or kinsfolk had fallen victims, 
or who might yet survive. Timid at first, and then more 
courageous, they ventured forth ; soon the places of old assem- 
bly, which children born in the last ten years had not seen, 
were cleansed, or repaired, refitted and reconciled,* and opened 
to public, and now fearless, worship. 

Constantino also ordered all property, 
public or private, belonging to Christians 
and confiscated, to be restored; but with 
the wise provision that the actual holders 
should be indenmified by the imperial 
treasury, t The Church was soon in motion 
to bring out all the resources of her beauti- 
ful forms and institutions ; and either the 
existing basilicas were converted to her 
uses, or new ones were built on the most 
cherished spots of Kome. 

Let not the reader fear that we are 
going to lead him forward into a long his- 
tory. This will belong to some one better 
qualified, for the task of unfolding the 
grandeur and charms of free and unfettered 
of Christianity. We have only to show the 
land of promise from above, spread like an 
inviting paradise before our feet ; we are not the Josue that 
must lead others in. The little that we have to add in this 
brief third part of our humble book, is barely what is neces- 
sary for its completion. 

We will then suppose ourselves arrived at the year 318, 
fifteen years after our last scene of death. Time and perma- 
nent laws have given security to the Christian religion, and 
the Church is likewise more fully establishing her organization. 

* The ceremony employed after desecration, 
f Euseb. H. E. lib. x. c. 5. 




The Labanim or Christian 
Standard. From a 
Constantine. 



PRDPTTRHDC PELi^OUtr 0^ 
UniT^LDlT 11^■1K1 II 







A Marriage in the Early Ages of the Church. 



^-fW 



^:i 



Many who on the return of peace had hung down their heads, 
having by some act of Aveak condescension escaped death, had 
by this time expiated their fall by penance ; and now and 
then an aged stranger would be saluted reverently by the 
13assers-by, when they saw that his right eye had been burned 
out, or his hand mutilated ; or when his halting gait showed 
that the tendons of the knee had been severed, in the late 
persecution, for Christ's sake.* 

If at this period our friendly reader will follow us out of 
the Nomentan gate, to the ^^alley with which he is already 
acquainted, he will find sad havoc among the beautiful trees 
and flower-beds of Fabiola's villa. Scaffold-poles are standing 
up in place of the first ; bricks, marbles, and columns lie upon 
the latter. Constantia, the daughter of Constantine, had 
prayed at St. Agnes's tomb, when not yet a Christian, to beg 
the cure of a virulent ulcer, had been refreshed by a vision, 
and completely cured. Being now baptized, she was repaying 
her debt of gratitude, by building over her tomb her beautiful 
basilica. Still the faithful had access to the crypt in which 
she was buried ; and great was the concourse of pilgrims, that 
came from all parts of the world. 

One afternoon, when Fabiola returned from the city to her 
villa, after spending the day in attending to the sick, in an 
hospital established in her own house, the fossor, who had 
charge of the cemetery, met her with an air of great interest, 
and no small excitement, and said : 

"Madam, I sincerely believe that the stranger from the 
East, whom you have so long expected, is arrived." 

Fabiola, who had ever treasured up the dying words of 
Miriam, eagerly asked, "Where is he? " 

" He is gone again," was the reply. 

* Iq the East, some governors, wearied with wholesale murders, adopted this 
more merciful way of treating Christians towards the end of the persecution. 

See Eusetiun. 



The lady's countenance fell. " But how," she asked again, 
" do you know it was he ? " The excavator replied : 

" In the course of the morning I noticed, among the crowd, 
a man not yet fifty, but worn by mortification and sorrow, to 
premature old age. His hair was nearly grey, as was his long 
beard. His dress was eastern, and he wore the cloak which 
the monks from that country usually do. When he came 
before the tomb of Agnes, he flung himself upon the pavement 
with such a passion of tears, such groans, such sobs, as moved 
all around to compassion. Many approached him, and whis- 
pered, ' Brother, thou art in great distress ; weej) not so, the 
saint is merciful.' Others said to him, ' We will all pray for 
thee, fear not.'* But he seemed to be beyond comfort. I 
thought to myself, surely in the presence of so gentle and kind 
a saint, none ought to be thus disconsolate or heart-broken, 
except only one man." 

"Go on, go on," broke in Fabiola; "what did he 
next?" 

"After a long time," continued the fossor, "he arose, and 
drawing from his bosom a most beautiful and sparkling ring, 
he laid it on her tomb. I thought I had seen it before, many 
years ago." 

"And then?" 

" Turning round he saw me, and recognized my dress. He 
approached me, and I could feel him trembling, as, without 
looking in my face, he timidly asked me : ' Brother, knowest 
thou if there lie buried any where here about a maiden from 
Syria, called Miriam ? ' I pointed silently to the tomb. After 
a pause of great pain to himself, so agitated now that his 
voice faltered, he asked me again : ' Knowest thou, brother, 
of what she died?' 'Of consumption,' I replied. 'Thank 
God ! ' he ejaculated, with the sigh of relieved anguish, and 
fell prostrate on the ground. Here too he moaned and cried 

* This scene is described from reality. 



c:£. 



for more than an hour, then, approaching the tomb, affection- 
ately kissed its cover, and retired." 

" It is he, Torquatus, it is he! " warmly exclaimed Fabiola; 
" why did you not detain him ? " 

" I durst not, lady ; after I had once seen his face, I had 
not courage to meet his eye. But I am sure he will return 
again ; for he went towards the city." 

"He must be found," concluded Fabiola. "Dear Miriam, 
thou hadst, then, this consoling foresight in death ! ' 




Noe and the Ark, as a eymbol of the Church, from a picture in the Catacombs. 




CHAPTER II. 

THE STRANGER IN ROME. 

ARLT next morning, the pilgrim was 
passing through the Forum, when he 
saw a group of persons gathered round 
one whom they were evidently teasing. 
He would have paid but little atten- 
tion to such a scene in a public 
thoroughfare, had not his ear caught a 
name familiar to it. He therefore drew 
nigh. In the centre was a man, younger 
than himself; but if he looked older 
than he was, from being wan and attenuated, the other did so 
much more from being the very contrary. He was bald and 
bloated, with a face swelled, and red, and covered with blotches 
and boils. A drunken cunning swam in his eye, and his gait 
and tone were those of a man habitually intoxicated. His 
clothes were dirty, and his whole person neglected. 

"Ay, ay, Corvinus," one youth was saying to him, "won't 
you get your deserts, now ? Have you not heard that Con- 
stantino is coming this year to Rome, and don't you think 
the Christians will have their turn about now ? " 

"Not they," answered the man we have described, "they 
have not the pluck for it. I remember we feared it, when 
Constantino published his first edict, after the death of Max- 
entius, about liberty for the Christians, but next year he 



I 



^ 



put us out of fear, by declaring all religions to be equally 
permitted." * 

"That is all very well, as a general rule," interposed 
another, determined further to plague him; "but is it not 
supposed that he is going to look up those who took an active 
part in the late persecution, and have the lex talionis,\ exe- 
cuted on them; stripe for stripe, burning for burning, and 
wild beast for wild beast ? " 

"Who says so?" asked Corvinus turning pale. 

"Why, it would surely be very natural," said one. 

"And very just," added another. 

" Oh, never mind," said Corvinus, " they will always let 
one off for turning Christian. And, I am sure, I would turn 
any thing, rather than stand — " 

"Where Pancratius stood," interposed a third, more 
malicious. 

" Hold your tongue," broke out the drunkard, with a 
tone of positive rage. " Mention his name again, if you 
dare!" And he raised his fist, and looked furiously at 
the speaker. 

"Ay, because he told you how you were to die," shouted 
the youngster, running away. "Heigh! Heigh! a panther 
here for Corvinus !/' 

All ran away before the human beast, now lashed into 
fury, more than they would have done from the wild one 
of the desert. He cursed them, and threw stones after 
them. 

The pilgrim, from a short distance, watched the close of 
the scene, then went on. Corvinus moved slowly along the 
same road, that which led towards the Lateran basilica, now 
the Cathedral of Eome. Suddenly a sharp growl was heard, 

* Eusebius, uhi sup. 

\ The law of retaliation, such as was prescribed also in the Mosaic law, " an 
eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," &c. 



If: 

crtr® 



and with it a piercing shriek. As they were passing by the 
Coliseum, near the dens of the wild beasts, which were pre- 
pared for combats among themselves, on occasion of the 
emperor's visit, Corvinus, impelled by the morbid curiosity 
natural to persons who consider themselves victims of some 
fatality, connected with a particular object, approached the 
cage in which a splendid panther was kept. He went close 
to the bars, and provoked the animal, by gestures and words ; 
saying: "Very likely, indeed, that you are to be the death of 
me ! Tou are very safe in your den." In that instant, the 
enraged animal made a spring at him, and through the wide 
bars of the den, caught his neck and throat in its fangs, and 
inflicted a frightful lacerated wound. 

The wretched man was picked up, and carried to his lodg- 
ings, not far off. The stranger followed him, and found them 
mean, dirty, and uncomfortable in the extreme ; with only an 
old and decrepit slave, apparently as sottish as his master, to 
attend him. The stranger sent him out to procure a surgeon, 
who was long in coming ; and, in the meantime, did his best 
to stanch the blood. 

While he was so occupied, Corvinus fixed his eyes upon 
him with a look of one delirious, or demented. 

" Do you know me ? " asked the pilgrim, soothingly. 

"Know you? No — yes. Let me see — Ha! the fox! my 
fox ! Do you remember our hunting together those hateful 
Christians. Where have you been all this time? How 
many of them have you caught?" And he laughed out- 
rageously. 

"Peace, peace, Corvinus," replied the other. "You must 
be very quiet, or there is no hope for you. Besides, I do not 
wish you to allude to those times ; for I am myself now a 
Christian." 

" You a Christian ? " broke out Corvinus savagely. " You 
who have shed more of their best blood than any man ? Have 



you been forgiven for all this? Or have you slept quietly 
upon it ? Have no furies lashed you at night ? no phantoms 
haunted you ? no viper sucked your heart ? If so, tell me how 
you have got rid of them all, that I may do the same. If 
not, they will come, they will come ! Vengeance and fury ! 
why should they not have tormented you as much as 
me ? " 

"Silence, Corvinus; I have suffered as you have. But I 
have found the remedy, and will make it known to you, 
as soon as the physician has seen you, for he is approach- 
ing." 

The doctor saw him, dressed the wound, but gave little 
hope of recovery, especially in a patient whose very blood was 
tainted by intemperance. 

The stranger now resumed his seat beside him, and spoke 
of the mercy of God, and His readiness to forgive the worst 
of sinners ; whereof he himself was a living proof. The 
unhappy man seemed to be in a sort of stupor; if he listened, 
not comprehending what was said. At length his kind 
instructor, having expounded to him the fundamental myster- 
ies of Christianity, in hope, rather than certainty, of being 
attended to, went on to say : 

" And now, Corvinus, you will ask me, how is for- 
giveness to be applied to one who believes all this ? It is 
by Baptism, by being born again of water and the Holy 
Ghost." 

"What?" exclaimed the sick man loathingly. 

" By being washed in the laver of regenei'ating water." 

He was interrupted by a convulsive growl rather than a 
moan. "Water! water! no water forme! Take it away!" 
And a strong spasm seized the patient's throat. 

His attendant was alarmed, but sought to calm him. 
"Think not," he said, "that you are to be taken hence in 
your present fever, and to be plunged into water" (the sick 



man shuddered, and moaned) ; " in clinical baptism,* a few 
drops suffice, not more than is in this pitcher." And he 
showed him the water in a small vessel. At the sight of it, 
the patient writhed and foamed at the mouth, and was shaken 
by a violent convulsion. The sounds that proceeded from 
him, resembled a howl from a wild beast, more than any 
utterance of human lips. 

The pilgrim saw at once that hydrophobia, with all its 
horrible symptoms, had come upon the patient, from the bite 
of the enraged animal. It was with difficulty that he and the 
servant could hold him down at times. Occasionally he broke 
out into frightful paroxysms of blasphemous violence against 
God and man. And then, when this subsided, he would go 
on moaning thus ; 

"Water they want to give me! water! water! none 
for me! It is fire! fire! that I have, and that is my por- 
tion. I am already on fire, within, without ! Look how 
it comes creeping up, all round me, it advances every moment 
nearer and nearer ! " And he beat off the fancied flame with 
his hands on either side of his bed, and he blew at it round 
his head. Then turning towards his sorrowful attendants, he 
would say, "why don't you put it out? you see it is already 
burning me." 

Thus passed the dreary day, and thus came the dismal 
night, when the fever increased, and with it the delirium, 
and the violent accesses ol fury, though the body was sink- 
ing. At length he raised himself up in bed, and looking 
with half-glazed eyes straight before him, he exclaimed in 
a voice choked with bitter rage : 

" Away, Pancratius, begone ! Thou hast glared on me 
long enough. Keep back thy panther! Hold it fast; it 

* Clinical baptism, or that of persons confined to their beds was admin- 
istered by pouring or sprinkling the water on the head. See Bingham, 
book xi. c. 11. 



is going to fly at my throat. It comes ! Oh ! " And with a 
convulsive grasp, as if pulling the beast from off his throat, 
he plucked av^^ay the bandage from his wound. A gush of 
blood poured over him, and he fell back, a hideous corpse, 
upon the bed. 

His friend saw how unrepenting persecutors died. 




The Sacrifice of Abraham, from a picture in the Catacombs. 



1 



CHAPTER III 



AND LAST. 

HE next morning, the pilgrim proceeded 
to discharge the business which had been 
interfered with by the circumstances 
related in the preceding chapter. He 
might have been first seen busily em- 
ployed inquiring after some one about 
the Januses in the Forum. At length, 
the person was found; and the two 
walked towards a dirty little ofiice under 
the Capitol, on the ascent called the 
Glivtis Asyli. Old musty books were brought out, and 
searched column after column, till they came to the 
date of the "Consuls Dioclesian Augustus, the eighth 
time, and Maximian Herculeus Augustus, the seventh 
time." * Here they found sundry entries, with reference to 
certain documents. A roll of mouldy parchments of that date 
was produced, docketed as referred to, and the number cor- 
responding to the entries was drawn out, and examined. The 
result of the investigation seemed perfectly satisfactory to both 
parties. 

" It is the first time in my life," said the owner of the den, 
" that I ever knew a person who had got clear ofi", come back, 
after fifteen years, to inquire after his debts. A Christian, I 
presume, sir ? " 

* A. D. 303. 




" Certainly, by God's mercy." 

" I thought as much ; good morning, sir. I shall be happy 
to accommodate you at any time, at as reasonable rates as my 
father Epliraim, now with Abraham. A great fool that for 
his pains, I must say, begging his pardon," he added, when 
the stranger was out of hearing. 

With a decided step and a brighter countenance than he 
had yet displayed, he went straight to the villa on the 
Nomentan way ; and after again paying his devotions in the 
crypt, but with a lighter heart, he at once addressed the 
fossor, as if they had never been parted : " Torquatus, can I 
speak with the Lady Fabiola? " 

"Certainly," answered the other; "come this way." 

Neither alluded, as they went along, to old times, nor to 
the intermediate history of either. There seemed to be an 
understanding, instinctive to both, that all the past was to be 
obliterated before men, as they hoped it was before God. 
Fabiola had remained at home that and the preceding day, 
in hopes of the stranger's return. She was seated in the 
garden close to a fountain, when Torquatus, pointing to her, 
retired. 

She rose, as she saw the long-expected visitor approach, 
and an indescribable emotion thrilled through her, when she 
found herself standing in his presence. 

" Madam," he said, in a tone of deep humility and earnest 
simplicity. " I should never have presumed to present myself 
before you, had not an obligation of justice, as well as many 
of gratitude, obliged me." 

"Orontius," she replied, — "is this the name by which I 
must address you?" (he signified his assent) "you can have 
no obligations towards me, except that which our great 
Apostle charges on us, that we love one another." 

" I know you feel so. And therefore I would not have 
pretended, unworthy as I am, to intrude upon you for any 



lower motive than one of strict duty. I know what gratitude 
I owe you for the kindness and aifection lavished upon one 
now dearer to me than any sister can be on earth, and how 
you discharged towards her the offices of love which I had 
neglected." 

"And thereby sent her to me," interposed Fabiola, "to 
be my angel of life. Remember, Orontius, that Joseph 
was sold by his brethren, only that he might save his 
race." 

"You are too good, indeed, towards one so worthless," 
resumed the pilgrim; "but I will not thank you for your 
kindness to another who has repaid you so richly. Only this, 
morning I have learnt your mercy to one who could have no 
claim upon you." 

" I do not understand you," observed Fabiola. 

" Then I will tell you all plainly," rejoined Orontius. " I 
have now been for many years a member of one of those com- 
munities in Palestine, of men who live separated from the 
world in desert places, dividing their day, and even their 
night, between singing the Divine praises, contemplation, 
and the labor of their hands. Severe penance for our past 
transgressions, fasting, mourning, and prayer form the great 
duty of our penitential state. Have you heard of such men 
here?" 

" The fame of holy Paul and Anthony is as great in the 
West as in the East," replied the lady. 

" It is with the greatest disciple of the latter that I have 
lived, supported by his great example, and the consolation he 
has given me. But one thought troubled me, and prevented 
my feeling complete assurance of safety even after years of 
expiation. Before I left Rome I had contracted a heavy debt, 
which must have been accumulating at a frightful rate of 
interest, till it had reached an overwhelming amount. Yet it 
was an obligation deliberately contracted, and not to be justly 



c::^ 



evaded. I was a poor cenobite,* barely living on the produce 
of the few palm-leaf mats that I could weave, and the scanty 
herbs that would grow in the sand. How could I discharge 
my obligations ? 

" Only one means remained. I could give myself up to 
my creditor as a slave, to labor for him and endure his blows 
and scornful reproaches in patience, or to be sold by him for 
my value, for I am yet strong. In either case, I should have 
had my Saviour's example to cheer and support me. At any 
rate, I should have given up all that I had — myself. 

" I went this morning to the Forum, found my creditor's 
son, examined his accounts, and found that you had dis- 
charged my debt in full. I am, therefore, your bondsman, 
Lady Fabiola, instead of the Jew's." And he knelt humbly 
at her feet. 

"Else, rise," said Fabiola, turning away her weeping eyes. 
" You are no bondsman of mine, but a dear brother in our 
common Lord." 

Then sitting down with him, she said : " Orontius, I have 
a great favor to ask from you. Give me some account of how 
you were brought to that life, which you have so generously 
embraced." 

" I will obey you as briefly as possible. I fled, as you 
know, one sorrowful night from Rome, accompanied by a 
man " — his voice choked him. 

"I know, I know whom you mean, — Eurotas," interrupted 
Fabiola. 

" The same, the curse of our house, the author of all mine, 
and my dear sister's, sufferings. We had to charter a vessel 
at great expense from Brundusium, whence we sailed for 
Cyprus. We attempted commerce and various speculations, 
but all failed. There was manifestly a curse on all that we 
undertook. Our means melted away, and we were obliged to 

* The religious who lived in community, or common life, were so called. . 



seek some other country. We crossed over to Palestine, and 
settled for a while at Gaza. Very soon we were reduced to 
distress ; every body shunned us, we knew not why ; but my 
conscience told me that the mark of Cain was on my brow." 

Orontius paused and wept for a time, then went on : 

"At length, when all was exhausted, and nothing re- 
mained but a few jewels, of considerable price indeed, but 
with which, I knew not why, Eurotas would not part, he urged 
me to take up the odious office of denouncing Christians; for 
a furious persecution was breaking out. For the first time in 
my life I rebelled against his commands, and refused to obey. 
One day he asked me to walk out of the gates ; we wandered 
far, till we came to a delightful spot in the midst of the desert." 
It was a narrow dell, covered with verdure, and shaded by 
palm-trees; a little clear stream ran down, issuing from a 
spring in a rock at the head of the valley. In this rock we 
saw grottoes and caverns ; but the place seemed uninhabited. 
JSTot a sound could be heard but the bubbling of the water. 

"We sat down to rest, when Eurotas addressed me in a 
fearful speech. The time was come, he told me, when we 
must both fulfil the dreadful resolution he had taken, that we 
must not survive the ruin of our family. Here we must both 
die ; the wild beasts would consume our bodies, and no one 
would know the end of its last representatives. 

" So saying, he drew forth two small flasks of unequal 
sizes, handed me the larger one, and swallowed the contents 
of the smaller. 

" I refused to take it, and even reproached him for the 
difference of our doses ; but he replied that he was old, and I 
young; and that they were proportioned to our respective 
strengths. I still refused, having no wish to die. But a sort 
of demoniacal fury seemed to come over him ; he seized me 
with a giant's grasp, as I sat on the ground, threw me on my 
back, and exclaiming, ' We must both perish together,' forcibly 



poured the contents of the phial, without sparing me a drop, 
down niy throat. 

"In an instant, I was unconscious; and remained so, till I 
awoke in a cavern, and faintly called for drink. A venerable 
old man, with a white beard, put a wooden bowl of water to 
mj lips. 'Where is Eurotas?' I asked. 'Is that your com- 
panion?' inquired the old monk. 'Yes,' I answered. 'He is 
dead,' was the reply. I kno\\' not by what fatality this had 
happened ; but I bless God with all my heart, for having 
spared me. 

" That old man was Hilarion, a native of Gaza, who, having 
spent many years with the holy Anthony in Egypt, had that 
year* returned to establish the cenobitic and eremitical life in 
his own country, and had already collected several disciples. 
They lived in the caves hard by, and took their refection under 
the shade of those palms, and softened their dry food in the 
water of that fountain. 

" Their kindness to me, their cheerful piety, their holy lives, 
won on me as I recovered. I saw the religion which I had 
persecuted in a sublime form ; and rapidly recalled to mind 
the instructions of my dear mother, and the example of my 
sister; so that yielding to grace, I bewailed my sins at the 
feet of God's minister, f and received baptism on Easter- 
eve." 

" Then we are doubly brethren, nay twin children of the 
Church ; for I was born to eternal life, also, on that day. But 
what do you intend to do now ? " 

" Set out this evening on my return. I have accomplished 
the two objects of my journey. The first was to cancel my 
debt ; my second was to lay an offering on the shrine of Agnes. 
You will remember," he added, smiling, " that your good 

* A. D. 303. 

t Confession of sins in private was made before baptism. See Bingham, 
Origines, b. xi. ch. viii. § 14. 



father unintentionally deceived me into the idea, that she 
coveted the jewels I displayed. Fool that I was! But I 
resolved, after my conversion, that she should possess the 
best that remained in Eurotas's keeping ; so I brought it to 
her." 

"But have you means for your journey?" asked the lady, 
timidly. 

"Abundant," he replied, "in the charity of the faithful. 
I have letters from the Bishop of Gaza, which procure me 
every wiiere sustenance and lodging ; but I will accept from 
you a cup of water and a morsel of bread, in the name of a 
disciple." 

They rose, and were advancing towards the house, when a 
woman rushed madly through the shrubs, and fell at their 
feet, exclaiming : " Oh, save me ! dear mistress, save me ! 
He is pursuing me, to kill me ! " 

Fabiola recognized, in the poor creature, her former slave 
Jubala; but her hair was grizzly and dishevelled, and her 
whole aspect bespoke abject misery. She asked whom she 
meant. 

"My husband," she replied; "long has he been harsh 
and cruel, but to-day he is more brutal than usual. Oh, save 
me from him ! " 

"There is no danger here," replied the lady; "but I fear, 
Jubala, you are far from happy. I have not seen you for a 
long, long time." 

" No, dear lady, why should I come to tell you of all my 
woes ? Oh ! why did I ever leave you and your house, where 
1 ought to have been so happy ? I might then wdth you, and 
Graja, and good old departed Euphrosyne, have learnt to be 
good myself, and have embraced Christianity ! " 

"What, have you really been thinking of this, Ju- 
bala ? " 

" For a long time, lady, in my sorrows and remorse. For 



I have seen how happy Christians are, even those who have 
been as wicked as myself. And because I hinted this to my 
husband this morning, he has beaten me, and threatened to 
take my life. But, thank God, I have been making myself 
acquainted with Christian doctrines, through the teaching of 
a friend." 

"How long has this bad treatment gone on, Jubala?" 
asked Orontius, who had heard of it from his uncle. 

"Ever," she replied, "since soon after marriage, I told 
him of an offer made to me previously, by a dark foreigner, 
named Eurotas. Oh ! he was indeed a wicked man, a man 
of black passions and remorseless villany. Connected with 
him, is my most racking recollection." 

"How was that?" asked Orontius, with eager curiosity. 

"Why, when he was leaving Rome, he asked me to pre- 
pare for him two narcotic potions; one for any enemy, he 
said, should he be taken prisoner. This was to be certainly 
fatal ; another had to suspend consciousness for a few hours 
only, should he require it for himself. 

" When he came for them, I was just going to explain to 
him, that, contrary to appearances, the small phial contained 
a fatally concentrated poison, and the large one a more diluted 
and weaker dose. But my husband came in at the moment, 
and in a fit of jealousy thrust me from the room. I fear some 
mistake may have been committed, and that unintentional 
death may have ensued." 

Fabiola and Orontius looked at one another in silence, 
wondering at the just dispensations of Providence ; when they 
were aroused by a shriek from the woman. They were liorri- 
fied at seeing an arrow quivering in her bosom. As Fabiola 
supported her, Orontius, looking behind him, caught a glimpse 
of a black face grinning hideously through the fence. In the 
next moment a Numidian was seen flying away on his horse, 
with his bow bent, Parthian-wise over his shoulder, ready for 



any pursuer. The arrow had passed, unobserved, between 
Orontius and the lady. 

"Jubala," asked Fabiola, "dost thou wish to die a 
Christian?" 

" Most earnestly," she replied. 

"Dost thou believe in One God in Three Persons?" 

" I firmly believe in all the Christian Church teaches." 

"And in Jesus Christ, who was born and died for our 
sins?" 

"Yes, in all that you believe." The reply was more 
faint. 

"Make haste, make haste, Orontius," cried Fabiola, 
pointing to the fountain. 

He was already at its basin, filling full his two hands, 
and coming instantly, poured their contents on the head of 
the poor African, pronouncing the words of baptism ; and, as 
she expired, the water of regeneration mingled with her blood 
of expiation. 

After this distressing, yet consoling, scene, they entered 
the house, and instructed Torquatus about the burial to be 
given to this doubly-baptized convert. 

Orontius was struck with the simple neatness of the 
house, so strongly contrasting with the luxurious splendor 
of Fabiola's former dwelling. But suddenly his attention 
was arrested, in a small inner room, by a splendid shrine 
or casket, set with jewels, but with an embroidered curtain 
before it, so as to allow only the frame of it to be seen. 
Approaching nearer, he read inscribed on it : 

" The blood or the blessed Miriam, shed by cruel 

HANDS ! " 

Orontius turned deadly pale; then changed to a deep 
crimson ; and almost staggered. 

Fabiola saw this, and going up to him kindly and frankly, 
placed -her. hand upon his arm, and mildly said to him: 



" Orontius, there is that within, which may well make us 
both blush deeply, but not therefore despond." 

So saying she drew aside the curtain, and Orontius saw 
within a crystal plate, the embroidered scarf so much con- 
nected with his own, and his sister's history. Upon it were 
lying two sharp weapons, the points of both which were 
rusted with blood. In one he recognized his own dagger ; the 
other appeared to him like one of those instruments of female 
vengeance, with which he knew heathen ladies punished their 
attendant slaves. 

"We have both," said Fabiola, "unintentionally inflicted 
a wound, and shed the blood of her, whom now we honor 
as a sister in heaven. But for my part, from the day 
when I did so, and gave her occasion to display her virtue, 
I date the dawn of grace upon my soul. What say you, 
Orontius?" 

" That I, likewise, from the instant that I so misused her, 
and led to her exhibition of such Christian heroism, began to 
feel the hand of God upon me, that has led me to repentance 
and forgiveness." 

"It is thus ever," concluded Fabiola. "The examjDle 
of our Lord has made the martyrs ; and the example of the 
martyrs leads us upwards to Him. Their blood softens our 
hearts; His alone cleanses our souls. Theirs pleads for mercy; 
His bestows it. 

" May the Church, in her days of peace and of victories, 
never forget what she owes to the age of her martyrs. As 
for us two, w^e are indebted to it for our spiritual lives. May 
many, who will only read of it, draw from it the same mercy 
and grace!" 

They knelt down, and prayed long together silently before 
the shrine. 

They then parted, to meet no more. 

After a few years, spent by Orontius in penitential 



fervor, a green mound by the palms, in the little dell near 
Gaza, marked the spot where he slept the sleep of the just. 

And after many years of charity and holiness, Fabiola 
withdrew to rest in peace, in tompany with Agnes and 
Miriam. 




